


like living on a cliffside

by shellybelle



Series: catch me, i'm falling [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Derek "Nursey" Nurse is Unchill, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, canon-typical alcohol use, discussion of past suicide attempts, discussion of suicide, food allergies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: Derek is used to thinking about death. One conversation at a time, Dex gets him used to thinking about life again.





	1. i will keep the plates all spinning (with a smile so bright and winning)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles taken from _Next to Normal_ , which is a great musical to listen to if you like to be emotionally devastated.
> 
> This fic takes place about a week after the events of [chiaroscuro](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9379286). You don't _have_ to read that one to get the context of this, but it'll help? Probably a lot. 
> 
> Full disclosure: This is going to be an angstfest of epic proportions. But with fluff and softness along the way. But please, please mind the warnings that will accompany each chapter, and read safely. <3 
> 
> This chapter contains discussion of a past suicide attempt, as well as implied emotional neglect of a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for (some spoilers) content warnings.

“I will keep the plates all spinning

With a smile so white and winning all the way

Cause what doesn't kill me doesn't kill me

So fill me up for just another day” 

(“Just Another Day”, _Next to Normal_ )

 

 

A week after Derek accidentally spills all his mental health drama to Dex and Chowder, he walks into the Haus after his last class of the day and is hit with one of the most delicious smells of his life.

 

“Holy shit,” he says, following his nose into the kitchen, where most of the hockey team seems to be crowded around the table. He catches sight of Dex’s flaming hair in the corner. “Did I miss a baked good or something? It smells fucking amazing in here.”

 

Bitty emerges from the crowd of much, much larger bodies, grinning at him. “I always save some for my frogs, Nursey, you know that!” He bats Ollie’s hands away from a plate of brownies with a firm “shoo!”, then steers Derek closer to the table with a hand on his arm, peeling one of the brownies off the plate and wrapping it in a paper towel. “Here, while it’s hot.”

 

Derek starts to reach for it, but a long-honed warning bell goes off in his head, and he catches sight of a few lighter swirls inside the darker chocolate. “What are they?” he asks, playing it curious.

 

“Peanut butter swirl brownies,” Bitty says. “With dark chocolate. None of that Hershey’s nonsense.”

 

Derek doesn’t take a literal step back, but it’s close. “I’d better not,” he says, shaking his head. “Thanks, though, Bits.”

 

Bitty frowns. “You’re not hungry?”

 

“Dude, you’ve _gotta_ try them,” Holster says, around what looks like a mouthful of two of them. “They’re fucking amazing.”

 

“C’mon,” Ransom teases from across the table, a glass of milk in his hand. “It’s not like you need to watch your figure.”

 

Derek snorts. “No, but I am _super_ allergic to nuts, and just because I have an EpiPen in my bag doesn’t mean I want one of you to stab me with it today.”

 

The room goes silent in one of those record-scratch, bump-the-jukebox moments where everything just _stills_ , and Derek winces. He knew this was going to happen eventually, but he’d always kind of hoped it would be smoother.

 

And that he wouldn’t have to deal with what he’s dealing with _now_ , which is Eric Bittle looking at him in absolute horror. “ _Nursey_ ,” he says. “ _Nursey_ , how could you not _tell_ me that? I’ve been baking for you since _August_! I could have _killed_ you!”

 

Derek waves a hand as dismissively as he can manage. “It’s chill, dude, seriously. I always ask you what’s in stuff before I eat anything.”

 

Bitty doesn’t seem mollified. Neither does Jack, who’s gone chalk white. “I make a peanut butter sandwich before every game,” he says slowly, alarm paling his face even more. “Nurse--”

 

And oh _hell_ no, he is _not_ gonna fuck with Jack Zimmermann’s pre-game ritual. “It’s _fine_ ,” he says firmly. “Seriously, guys, it’s under control. I’ve been dealing with this since I was a little kid, I can handle it. Bitty, you can bake whatever you want, just let me know if there’s nuts in it before you feed it to me. Jack, you can make your sandwiches, just don’t, like, smear your hands on my face afterwards. Okay? Trust me, if either of those things were going to be a problem, we would’ve figured it out _way_ before now.”

 

He catches Dex’s eye across the room. He’s frowning. Not his usual Patented Poindexter scowl, but something subtler, concerned and a little uncertain. Next to him, half a brownie still in his hand, Chowder is wearing a similar expression. Derek tries to shoot them a reassuring smile. Chowder returns it, sort of, but Dex just narrows his eyes.

 

Bitty still looks worried. “Should we have EpiPens for the Haus?” he asks, looking between Derek and, to Derek’s mild annoyance, Jack. “I mean, if your allergy’s bad enough that you carry them, we should have them here, right?”

 

“No,” Derek says, impatient and a little frustrated. “Seriously. It’s--”

 

“Brahs,” Shitty interrupts, coming in from the stairwell, wearing weed-patterned boxer briefs and nothing else. “Check out this sweet-ass ducky tramp stamp Lardo gave me, it’s literally--” He cuts himself off, frowning. “What’s with the awkward as fuck energy in here?”

 

Bitty rounds on him. “ _You_ ,” he accuses. “You knew Nursey at Andover! Did you know he had a literally life-threatening allergy?”

 

Shitty blinks. “What, the nut thing? Yeah, the coaches read us the fucking riot act because kids kept bringing peanut butter on the bus on roadies and they had to Epi him twice and _ooooooh_.” He looks at Nursey. “You motherfucker, did you not tell anyone?”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Derek begins, but Shitty is already giving him a look that says _I Have Your Mother’s Phone Number and I Will Use It_  , so he shuts up.

 

Shutting up isn’t enough, apparently, because Shitty cuffs him on the back of the head. “It _is_ a big fucking deal,” he says. “You get anaphylactic as _fuck_ , what the fuck is _wrong with you_ , do you have a _literal fucking death wish_ , _Je_ sus.” He grabs Derek by the arms and moves him a step back from the table with the brownies. Derek rolls his eyes but lets him.

 

“Yeah, okay, I think we should get EpiPens,” Bitty says, a deep furrow appearing between his brows.

 

“It’s _fine_ ,” Derek says, trying to keep his voice calm because it’s Bitty, but _fuck this_ , he’s a big kid and he can make his own fucking decisions. “Seriously, I know what I can and can’t eat.”

 

Dex clears his throat. “We get delivery,” he says. Derek glares at him. Traitor. “We get a _lot_ of delivery.”

 

“I know what I can eat from the places we get delivery,” Derek insists.

 

Shitty crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah? You know exactly which places in Samwell never, ever, _ever_ cross-contaminate? _Ever_?”

 

Derek hesitates. For just a second too long.

 

“We’re getting EpiPens for the Haus,” Jack says firmly.

 

Derek sighs. He knows when he’s beaten. “Fine,” he says. He feels suddenly exhausted. “Will you at least let me pay for them? They’re fucking pricey and at least if I buy them they’re under my insurance.”

 

Jack presses his lips together, like he might argue--and Derek knows he’s got cash to spare, but it’s the fucking _principle_ of the thing, okay?--and, to Derek’s relief, lets it drop. “Fair enough,” he says.

 

“Great,” Derek says. He hitches his bag further up on his shoulder. “Gonna head up to the Reading Room to do some homework, if that’s cool.”

 

Shitty salutes him. “Dismissed, Private Frog,” he says.

 

Derek snorts. He’s got no doubt in his mind that he’ll get an earful from Shitty later--and probably his moms, if Shitty does end up calling them--but he’s not dealing with that now. He climbs the stairs, and out onto the roof through Shitty’s window.

 

It’s a crisp afternoon, but not _cold_ , though he’s grateful for his jacket as he leans up against the side of the house. He takes out his copy of _Orlando_ , already sticky-noted, the margins half-covered in scribbled notes--there’s a reason he doesn’t rent his textbooks--and flips through to the section he’s supposed to be reading for his next class.

 

He’s in the middle of highlighting a passage--( _Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living? And then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it?_ )--when Shitty’s window slides open and Dex pokes his head out.

 

“Hey,” he says. “D’you want some company?”

 

It takes Derek a few moments to drag his head back from where it goes when he gets too deep into a book. By the time he does, and processes the question, Dex’s fair skin is already flushing a little from the chilly air, but his expression is soft, almost uncertain. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Dex climbs out onto the roof, and then reaches back through the window and comes back with a tupperware and two forks. “Here,” he says, sitting down next to Derek and handing him a fork. “Last of the berry pie from Tuesday.”

 

Derek takes it, surprised. “Thanks, man.”

 

Dex shrugs. “You kind of got ambushed back there.” He hesitates, poking a little at the flaky crust with his fork while Derek takes a bite. The flavor bursts across his tongue, sweet and a little tangy. “It, uh. Looked like it sucked.”

 

“Yeah.” Derek doesn’t say anything more. There isn’t really more to say. “It kind of always sucks like that. But I kind of deserved it, I guess. I should’ve been up front about it.”

 

“You don’t owe people your medical history, man,” Dex says.

 

Derek arches an eyebrow at him, very pointedly.

 

Dex’s cheeks go pink, and Derek knows that Dex, too, is remembering a very different conversation, in Chowder’s dorm room, the three of them shaking and near tears and on the verge of panic. “That--that was different. And even then, I wasn’t--” He clears his throat. “I know I wasn’t, like, _entitled_. I was just…” He pushes a hand through his hair, even though he really keeps it too short for that, and it doesn’t really go anywhere. It’s Derek’s own anxious motion, he realizes with a start, and he wonders when Dex picked it up from him. “I was scared, y’know? You really scared us.”

 

“I know I did.” Derek pokes at the pie. He has a pit in his stomach now, but Dex brought him pie, and he knows it’s an olive branch, so he’s going to eat it. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay.” Dex nudges his shoulder. “We’re cool, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

 

Finally, Dex speaks again. “So, no nuts, huh? That’s gotta suck.”

 

Derek shrugs. “You don’t really miss what you never had, y’know? I broke out in hives the first time my mom fed me peanut butter. When they did an allergen test, my throat literally closed up, so they kind of figured that was that.”

 

Dex looks alarmed. “Jesus fuck, man.”

 

“Seriously, it’s fine. Just, like, wash your hands between eating anything with nuts and poking me in the face and we’re chill.” He takes another bite of pie.

 

Dex does too, chewing thoughtfully. “So, like. You haven’t had peanut butter since you were a baby?”

 

Derek doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe because he’s tired, maybe because reading Virginia Woolf always makes his mind go a little dark, maybe because he’s just a little off-kilter from the commotion in the kitchen, but--

 

For the second time that day, he hesitates.

 

Dex stills with his fork halfway into the tupperware. He looks up, and his eyes are wide, and worried. “Nursey?” Derek doesn’t know what’s showing on his own face, but it must be _something_ , because Dex puts his fork down, and leans forward, his gaze sharpening. “Nursey, what?”

 

“I, uh.” Derek chews the inside of his cheek, rubbing his hands together, ostensibly against the chill. “When I was eleven, I…” He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “You don’t want to know this.”

 

Dex shakes his head. “I’m your partner,” he says, and stresses the word _hard_ , like it’s something bigger than hockey, even though just two weeks ago this thing between them was tenuous and fragile and fraught with anger.

 

But it’s like something clicked between them that night. It’s not pity, not sympathy--he wouldn’t stand for that. But it’s solidarity, maybe. Solidity. A shoulder to lean on. Derek doesn’t know what it is, but he’s grateful for it. Dex’s eyes are steady on his. “Tell me.”

 

Derek swallows. “So, my...My parents split when I was two, right? And my dad remarried about two years later. Nice lady from the Upper West Side. So they move out to Westchester, have a couple kids of their own, and at that point, my parents still had split custody. And, uh--my sister and I, we didn’t really get along with her. My dad’s wife. She wasn’t, like...She wasn’t, you know, abusive or anything, just--she didn’t _care_ about us. And when you’re a kid, you’re--you’re sensitive to that shit. And I was…” He laughs, but it’s hollow in his chest. “I was a sensitive kid anyway.”

 

“Nursey,” Dex says, his eyes soft.

 

He swallows. “I don’t know, I was always, like, a sad kid, I guess? I didn’t know it was depression, then. I hadn’t been diagnosed. But I always cried really easily, and I always felt hopeless and guilty. I didn’t really have friends. I always internalized everything--like, rejection always felt like the worst possible thing that could happen to me, so everything always felt worse when we were at my dad’s.”

 

Dex is watching him, rapt and horrified. Derek’s mouth feels dry, and he licks his lower lip absently. “It was one of my dad’s days, and we got home from school, and I remember that my step-mom just told me to go upstairs and do my homework, because she didn’t have time to deal with me, because my half-sister was having a tantrum--she was three, maybe four? And I don’t remember if it was just already a bad day, or what, but Farah--my sister--went right upstairs, but I took the peanut butter jar from the pantry, and then I went up to my room and started, just, eating it by the spoonful.”

 

The color drains out of Dex’s face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says. “Did you know--”

 

“I’d been carrying EpiPens since I was six,” Derek says, looking down at his hands. “I knew.”

 

“Jesus,” Dex says again. He swallows visibly. His hands are shaking where he still holds the tupperware in his hands. “What--what happened?”

 

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know, exactly. I remember trying to breathe, and then not breathing, and then breathing again, and Farah crying. She heard me fall, and ran in and grabbed the EpiPen out of my backpack.” He smiles tightly. “Guess asphyxiation isn’t such a quiet way to go.”

 

Dex doesn’t smile back. “Derek,” he says, like it’s being wrenched out of his throat, and somehow, the use of his first name hits Derek right in the gut. “You were--you were so _young_.”

 

He looks like he’s going to cry, and Derek feels a sudden urge to grab his hand, or hug him, or something equally mushy, but they don’t _do_ that. “Hey,” he says, a little awkwardly. “It’s--I was okay. Like, obviously it was awful, but, like, that was what got me diagnosed, got me into therapy, got me on meds. It worked out.”

 

“But…” Dex scrubs a shaking hand over his face. “God.” And then he frowns, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t add up. “Why was there even peanut butter in your fucking _house_?”

 

Derek shrugs. “My half-sisters liked it.”

 

Fury dawns over Dex’s features. “Are you fucking _kidding me_?”

 

“No.” He draws his knees up to his chest. “But that was what gave my mom the platform to get full custody.”

 

“God.” Dex pushes his hand over his face again, and Derek realizes with a start that he’s wiping his _eyes_ , and--

 

“Oh, Dex, _don’t_ ,” he says, panicking. “Don’t, please, just--” He looks around, desperately hoping for a distraction. “Here,” he says,  “Eat pie.”

 

Dex laughs damply and says “Jesus _fuck_ , Nursey,” but he takes it, and shoves a bite of pie into his mouth. He chews, slowly, and his face is thoughtful.

 

Derek watches the mostly-bare branches move in the afternoon breeze, grateful for the silence. He feels drained from telling the story. He’s only done it a few times, mostly to new therapists, once to an ex, only rarely to friends. It always leaves him tired and a little shaky. They say the first time is the hardest to tell, he thinks, but he’s never found that true.

 

“What was it like?” Dex asks suddenly.

 

Derek blinks, turning to look at him. “What?” Dex still has that _look_ on his face, somewhere between heartbroken and tender, and Derek doesn’t know what to do with it. “Almost dying?”

 

Dex shakes his head. “No. That first breath back.”

 

No one’s ever asked him that before.

 

He remembers it, though. In the blur of the rest of that day--the pain, the panic, the fear, the noise of the ambulance, Farah’s tears, his mother screaming at his father outside his room in the ER--he remembers that breath with perfect clarity, like crystalline water from the freshest spring.

 

“Sweet,” he says softly. “It--I mean, it hurt? My throat was raw, and it kind of caught, but...it was sweet. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

 

Dex takes a slow breath, in and out through his mouth. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Derek smiles, rolling his shoulders back. “My first therapist, uh--that was one of the things she taught me. To look for sweet things. She gave me my first journal, and told me to write down one sweet thing, every day.”

 

“Do you still do it?”

 

Derek nods. “I do more with my journaling--it’s this weird mess of reflection and poetry and what-I-did-today and CBT mood tracking and all sorts of other shit--but yeah. One sweet thing. Every day.”

 

“I like it,” Dex says. His smile is soft, and it transforms his whole face, gentling his eyes, smoothing the pink of his cheeks from their usual angry flush to something much gentler. “One sweet thing. I like it.” He pauses, and then holds up the tupperware. “So did I help you find today’s?”

 

Derek takes the last bite of the pie, tastes the burst of tangy blueberry and raspberry on his tongue, the buttery sweetness of the crust. He watches the afternoon sun send flickers of light through the branches of the trees and onto Dex’s red-gold eyelashes, watches the way Dex’s amber eyes turn the color of honey in the sun.

 

“Yeah,” he says. Something--something that was knocked off-center when he walked into the Haus kitchen and threw everyone into a frenzy, something that has been shaken and trembling since--settles, soft and warm, deep in his chest. “Yeah, I think you did.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Discussion of severe food allergies, including the intentional activation of those food allergies in a past suicide attempt; discussion of a past suicide attempt, implied parental favoritism to the point of potential child neglect.
> 
> Talking to a friend can be a wonderful resource when dealing with depression. But if you are seriously experiencing suicidal ideation, please reach out to a professional. [Here is a list of phone hotlines (US-based)](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com/post/24784688810/dont-ever-hesitate-reblog-this-tumblr-rule), and [here is an international list](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html). For a text-based hotline, [click here](http://www.crisischat.org/). Stay safe, babes. 
> 
> If you want to chat with me about fandom, puppies, politics, and a bunch of other random stuff, I'm on tumblr: @geniusorinsanity. My ask box is always open for prompts, questions, feels, or just to chit chat.


	2. i am riding on the brightest buzz (i am miles away from who i was)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wants it on the fucking record that he did not sign up for Nursey Patrol tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags, my loves. This chapter contains pretty canon-typical alcohol use, but also a conversation about the potential side effects of mixing alcohol and medication. Please read safely. <3

“Is my brain reborn or is it wrecked,

In freedom or in fear?

Wish I were here.

Have I blown my mind forever?

Is cloudy my new clear?

Wish I were here.

Can I hide my stupid hunger,

Fake some confidence and cheer,

‘Wish I were here’...”

 

(“Wish I Were Here”, _Next to Normal_ )

 

 

Will wants it on the fucking record that he did _not_ sign up for Nursey Patrol tonight.

 

Not that he was planning on picking up, really--he comes to kegsters to hang out with his friends and drink, not to get laid; that’s just the occasional bonus--but because he and Nursey are just trying to figure out how to properly be _friends_ with each other, and him being in charge of Nursey when he’s flat-out shitfaced really doesn’t seem like the best way to keep that fragile new friendship from backsliding. Nursey tends to get _more_ annoying when he’s drunk, not less--sure, he loses that infuriating fake _chill_ that makes Will want to strangle him, but he also gets loose and languid and tactile in a way that turns Will’s skin hot anywhere Nursey’s body makes contact.

 

And then, what’s _worse_ , is that when Nursey pulls away, he leaves Will’s skin prickling, like he’d left something behind. An itch, or something. A yearning. And when he _does_ manage to push through the fucking crowd and find Nursey bent over a table with half the Samwell Women’s Soccer team doing body shots off his abs or in the middle of the dance floor with some giant dude from the football team pressed against his back like a second skin, he _feels_ his temper flare in that very specific way that even his slightly beer-buzzed brain can recognize jealous possessiveness, and he really, really does not need that shit in his life. 

 

“Motherfucker,” he mutters. He drains the rest of his solo cup.

 

When he looks back around from throwing it into the trash, he’s lost Nursey again, and he swears. The SWS team has moved on to Ransom, who looks entirely too pleased to have taken Nursey’s place, and when he cranes his neck and looks out at the dance floor, he doesn’t see Nursey or his hulking football partner. 

 

Fuck. Nursey’d definitely been plastered already when he’d slipped off to go dance with Giant Guy in the first place. If he goes and hooks up when he’s this drunk and Shitty finds out, Will is going to be literally murdered. 

 

Will’s about to text Chowder for some fucking backup when two hundred pounds of drunk defenseman slams into his side. 

 

“Dex!” Nursey crows, sounding absolutely delighted to see him. “Dex, I _missed_ you!”

 

Will is honestly too relieved to see him to be pissed. “Good to see you too, fuckface,” he says, shoving down his relief and slinging an arm around Nursey’s shoulders. 

 

Nursey beams at him, looking, Will thinks, unfairly good for someone who’s been drinking pretty much nonstop for the past three hours. His dark curls are mussed and a little damp around his temples where he’s sweating, and his black v-neck is definitely sticking to his skin more than it was earlier--though whether that’s from sweat or leftover tequila, Will’s not sure--but other than that, he looks as good as he did when they got here. “You were _missing_!”

 

“I was looking for you,” Will corrects. He squints at Nursey’s face. Even in the dim lighting-- _mood lighting_ , Holster would say, because Holster is that kind of guy--he can tell that Nursey’s eyes are a little unfocused. “When was the last time you had any water?”

 

Nursey purses his lips. “Um,” he says, which is answer enough. Will sighs.

 

“Come on,” he says, and takes Nursey’s arm, dragging him towards the kitchen. Bitty always cordons off the doorway with CAUTION tape and a few angry emoji signs, but it’s basically the same SMH-only rule as the upper floors of the Haus. Will lifts up the tape and shoves Nursey under it, then follows, steering Nursey into one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit,” he says firmly.

 

Nursey sits, and Will feels his gaze on his back as he goes to the fridge, pulling out a few bottles of water and carrying them back to the table. “Delivery an’ everything?” he chirps, leaning his chin on his hand. 

 

Will snorts. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. He hands Nursey a bottle and sits down across from him, watching Nursey run a finger around the seal of the cap like he wants to make sure it’s not broken before he twists it off, taking a sip and then leaning back in his chair. Will kicks his shin under the table. “Drink the whole thing, dumbass.”

 

Nursey makes a face at him. “I _will_ ,” he says. “God, you’re so…” He purses his lips, like he’s searching for something, waving the hand not holding the bottle in an idle motion. “What’s the fucking word in English... prepotente.” Will looks at him blankly. “ _Dex_ ,” he whines.

 

“Sorry, dude,” Will says, because he struggled his way through four years of Spanish, got a two on the AP test, and promptly threw his hands up in frustration and determined that he’s fucking terrible at languages. “How much’ve you had, anyway, if you can’t remember English?”

 

“No _puedes_ recordar inglés,” Nursey mutters, and then snorts, sitting up straighter and flopping out one arm. “Mira.”

 

Will squints at him, because he’s pretty sure there was a chirp there, but he leans forward and looks at the exposed skin of Nursey’s arm, which has seven tally marks drawn on it in what looks like Sharpie. “Have you been...tracking your drinks?”

 

“Yup,” Nursey says, popping the ‘p.’ “Because I am _responsible_.”

 

Will raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?” He pokes one of the marks, but because Nursey is basically made of solid muscle, there’s basically no give, so it’s not super satisfying. “I’m pretty sure _responsible_ is not getting so drunk you need your friends to keep your ass alive.”

 

Nursey gives him a lazy smile, leering at him through half-lidded eyes. Will has a sudden realization that Nursey has incredibly thick eyelashes, and busies himself taking a sip of his _own_ water, because clearly the few beers he’s had have gone right to his head. “Chill, habibi,” Nursey says, his voice almost a drawl, only the slightest slur clinging to the words. “You know you love me.” 

 

Will swallows his water, electing to ignore both the statement and Nursey’s tendency to call him names in languages he doesn’t speak, which is just fucking rude. “How many of those were solo cups of tub juice, dumbass?”

 

Nursey blinks blankly at him. “Uh,” he says. He screws up his face. “Three-ish?” he says.

 

It’s so obviously a guess that Will kind of wants to strangle him. “Bro,” he sighs. “You know each of those is probably, like, three drinks on its own?”

 

“Oops?” Nursey shrugs. “’s’whatever, bro. Just booze.”

 

Will rolls his eyes. “You say that now. You’re gonna be hugging a toilet in like three hours.”

 

Nursey grins. “Nah, I never get sick. I just black out and pass out.”

 

“Yeah, because that’s good for you.” He kicks Nursey under the table, though with considerably less force than he wants to, because he’ll feel a little bad if Nursey wakes up with bruises he doesn’t remember getting. They’re friends now, after all. Friends only give each other bruises when they’re both gonna remember it in the morning. “Drink more water, dumbass.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Nursey takes a few more obedient sips, and then puts his chin back in his hand, looking thoughtfully at Will through half-lidded eyes.

 

Will shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “What?”

 

“You’re being _nice_ to me,” Nursey says.

 

“I literally just kicked you,” Will deadpans.

 

“Yeah, but not like _hard_.” Nursey squints, then shoves his water away. 

 

Will shrugs. “I’m on Nursey Patrol,” he says. “If I’m nice to you, maybe you’ll stop trying to slip me.”

 

Something Will can’t really interpret flickers across Nursey’s face, but before he can try to figure it out, Nursey sticks out his tongue and drinks some more water. He’s tapping one finger against the side of the water bottle, a motion that would be jittery if it were Will, but seems almost lazy from Nursey. His eyes aren’t quite focused on Will’s face, but rather on something over his left shoulder, and Will almost twists around to see what he’s looking at before realizing he’s probably not staring at anything. 

 

He kicks him again. “Hey,” he says. “You with me, dude?”

 

Nursey blinks a few times. “Mm?” He rolls his shoulders and then drags his eyes to look more directly at Will, then smiles, alcohol-bright. “Yeah, bro, toooootes.” He waggles his eyebrows and then laughs, taking another sip of water. “I mean, like.” He leans forward. “As much as any of us are really _anywhere_ , you know?”

 

Will snorts. “I thought you were supposed to get all philosophical on weed, not alcohol.”

 

“I’m an equal-opportunity philosopher,” Nursey says, not slurring at all, because he’s the kind of asshole who manages to be articulate, even while shitfaced. 

 

He does, however, spill water on his face when he tries to punctuate his statement with a swig from the bottle, so Will takes some comfort in that, snickering at him. Nursey gives him a look of abject betrayal. “I thought we were _friends_ ,” he says. 

 

Will shrugs. Nursey gives him an exaggerated pout, and Will rolls his eyes. “Drink your water, loser.”

 

Nursey sticks out his tongue, but does, draining the rest of the bottle. He gets up to throw it away and promptly sways on his feet, pitching forward. 

 

“Jesus,” Will yelps, and lunges to catch him before he hits the floor. “What the fuck, dude, are you okay?”

 

“The floor betrayed me,” Nursey mumbles, one arm coming up to get a fumbling grasp at Will’s bicep. “Swear to God, dude, it moved.” 

 

“Jesus,” Will says again. He gets up, hauling Nursey with him. It takes a second for Nursey to get his feet under him, but he does, and Will dumps him back in his chair. Nursey flops his head down into Will’s shoulder. “Can you sit up?” Will asks, careful to keep his voice gentle, not exasperated--he knows he has a tendency to yell when he’s worried, and Nursey going from playful to _on the fucking floor_ flipped that switch pretty quick. “I wanna get you another water bottle.”

 

“Noooo,” Nursey says, half-muffled in Will’s shoulder. “Don’t go.”

 

“I’m just going to the fridge,” Will says. He pushes Nursey carefully up, steadying him until he’s sure he won’t topple out of the chair, and then crosses to the fridge. He gets another water bottle, opens it, and pushes it into Nursey’s hand. “Here. Drink.”

 

Nursey takes a few sips, and Will stays crouched in front of him, ready to catch him again if he tips forward. “Sorry,” he says, finally. “I’m good now.”

 

“You sure?” Will asks warily. Nursey nods, and Will gets to his feet, sitting down in the chair next to Nursey instead of across from him. He doesn’t doubt Nursey notices, if the way his brow briefly furrows and then smooths is any indication. Nursey’s hand shakes a little where he’s holding the bottle, but he seems stable enough now, at least, like he’s not going to fall over. 

 

Something tugs at Will’s mind, then, a question that’s been nagging at him all night, pulling harder and harder the more he’s seen Nursey drink. He hasn’t asked it, because it doesn’t really feel like it’s his place, but… “Hey,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Nursey blinks a few times, like he’s bringing himself back from somewhere far away, and then focuses more directly on Will’s face. He blinks again, and then says, “Shoot.”

 

“You said you’re on meds, right? Like, antidepressants?” Nursey hadn’t _said_ antidepressants when he mentioned medication, but Will could put two and two together. Now, Nursey cocks an eyebrow, but nods. “So, like--” Will hesitates, but he’s already in this deep, so he just plunges ahead. “I remember I read somewhere that you’re not really supposed to drink on them? But you clearly do, and I just, like...Is that safe?”

 

Nursey looks at him for a long moment. There’s still a slight unfocused glaze to his eyes, but there’s thoughtfulness, too. Finally, he shrugs. “I mean,” he says, and lifts a hand, palm flat and parallel to the table, tilting it side to side. “Eh?”

 

Will squints at him, trying to interpret that in a way that doesn’t make him _more_ worried. “What the fuck is _eh_ supposed to mean, Nursey?”

 

“IDK, dude, like…” Nursey trails off, glancing at Will briefly like he’s hoping Will will get so distracted by the use of text speak in a verbal concentration that he’ll forget what they’re talking about, but Will just narrows his eyes at him. 

 

Nursey makes a face, then huffs a sigh. He leans back in his chair, reaching into his pocket, and comes up a moment later with a Sharpie, probably the same one he used to make the marks on his arm. He pulls the cap off with his teeth, sticks it on the back, and then snaps his fingers and makes a _gimme_ gesture towards Will.

 

Will frowns, confused. “What?”

 

“Arm,” Nursey says. “If you want me to talk about this shit, I need my hands busy.” Will raises his eyebrows, but flops his arm down on the table. Nursey takes his wrist in his hand, turns it so that Will’s arm is face-up, and starts drawing on Will’s skin with the Sharpie, tracing along the veins in his wrist and forearm. It tickles like fuck, but he grits his teeth against the urge to giggle or squirm. 

 

“It won’t kill me,” Nursey says after a few moments of silent doodling. “Mixing them. Not the--I mean, like, I’ve got other shit I could mix, if I wanted to--” He huffs a small laugh, like there’s something funny here, like Will’s blood didn’t just run cold in his veins, but Nursey’s already plowing on. “Anyway, it’s like--I think I just get drunk faster. And it might make the alcohol affect me a little more, or whatever, but it’s not--I don’t know. Like, my doctor probably wouldn’t like it, but it’s not a big deal or anything.”

 

Will bites his tongue to keep from pointing out that it probably _is_ a big deal to combine substances that your doctor would be pissed about you mixing. “But…” He hesitates. “I mean, like. You could probably drink, like, _less_? If it’s a bad idea to put them together?”

 

Nursey shrugs, not looking up. “I could.”

 

At first, Will thinks he’s going to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Will gives him a few seconds, and then prompts, “But?”

 

“But nothing. I _could_ do all sorts of shit that would be better for me than what I do to handle stuff.” He starts drawing something smaller, less ticklish, and Will peers down to look. Nursey’s turned the outlines of his veins into the trunk of a tree, the smaller ones into branches, and is now adding leaves. Will thinks he sees a small nest tucked between two of his freckles. “I just don’t.”

 

“Why?” 

 

The question comes out before Will really means it to, and he regrets it almost immediately, knows it’s not a fair one. That it’s not his right to ask. 

 

Nursey glances up at him. “Why what?”

 

“Why don’t you--” Will can feel his voice rising, and he cuts himself off, takes a careful breath. He does this sometimes, expresses worry as anger, and he’s been broken up with over it enough times to know it’s a problem. He breathes out slowly, tries to cool himself off. Thinks, a little wryly, _fucking chill, Poindexter_. “If you know shit that’s better for you, why don’t you...I don’t know, do it?”

 

Nursey stills, and for a moment, Will thinks he’s gone too far. But then Nursey leans back in his chair, capping the marker. He looks at Will, really _looks_ at him, and despite the alcohol-induced haze still clinging to his face, Will can see how tired his eyes are. “Because it’s fucking hard, Dex,” he says. He sounds _sad_ , sadder than Will’s ever seen him, even on the night Will found out how hard he was struggling, and Will’s chest hurts to look at him. “Because it’s fucking hard, and I don’t _want_ to, and--”

 

He breaks off, swallowing, and flexes his fingers around the pen, casting a longing look back at the living room, where the kegster is still raging. Will startles a little; he’d almost forgotten about it. After a moment, Nursey shakes himself slightly, and looks back at him, a hint of defiance on his face. “Why do you care, anyway?”

 

Will furrows his brow. “Why do I care that you’re getting wasted and passing out when you shouldn’t be drinking at all?” Nursey just _looks_ at him, pointed, and Will feels the hint of a flush creep over his cheeks. “I don’t know, man, because it’s fucking scary? That you don’t care what happens to you and you’ll just--fuck around like this even when you know it could hurt you?”

 

Nursey huffs. He puts the Sharpie down and starts rolling it back and forth across the table under his palm, clearly uncomfortable. “When you say it like that it sounds bad,” he mutters.

 

“Yeah, well--” He’s getting heated again, and he knows, he _knows_ , that’s not fair here. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath. “I know I can’t say I want you to be okay and then you’ll be okay, but fuck, Nursey, it’s--it freaks me the fuck out that you just...that you just don’t care.” 

 

Nursey looks at him, eyes narrowed, and then his shoulders relax a fraction. He licks his bottom lip. “It freaks you that much?” Will nods. 

 

He has no idea what his face is doing, but it must be something weird, because Nursey sighs. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Twist the fucking _knife_ , Poindexter, _fine_. I’ll, like--start cutting myself off after a couple shots, or whatever, okay? If it’s that big a thing for you.”

 

Will blinks a few times. “You--really?”

 

Nursey makes a face at him. “I mean I’m fucking schwasted and you’re gonna have to remind me about this since I probably won’t remember, and you’re gonna have to put your ass on Nursey Patrol all the fucking time because trust me I’m gonna be a huge _bitch_ about it, but--” 

 

Will cuts him off, reaching across the table to put a hand over his mouth. “Whatever you need me to do,” he says, grinning. “I got your back, dude.”

 

He feels weirdly _giddy_ , and he wants to blame it on the few beers he’s had, but he knows that’s bullshit. Nursey rolls his eyes and licks the palm of his hand, but Will’s been playing hockey his whole life. That's not even the grossest thing he’s dealt with _today._ He makes a face, but doesn’t move his hand. “Fuckin’ really?”

 

Nursey licks him again, and Will rolls his eyes and takes his hand away. “ _Really_ ,” Nursey says. “Can we start this good behavior shit next kegster, at least? ’Cause it’s only like one-thirty, and I’ve had two waters now, I could totally drink more.”

 

_Oh my God did you listen to me at all_ , Will wants to say, potentially with some shaking and banging his head or Nursey’s into the table, but he knows Nursey well enough to know that’s not how to deal with this. “Tell you what,” he says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “If you can get up from this table and not fall over, I will go back into the kegster and do a shot with you myself.”

 

Nursey grins. “Oh, it is fucking _on_ , Poindexter.” He pushes himself up, and promptly catches his foot on the table leg and topples forward. 

 

Will shoots an arm out to grab him before he hits the ground, and mostly only succeeds in turning him so that he lands on his ass and not on his head. He counts it a win. “Nice,” he says dryly. “Ten outta ten, buddy.”

 

“The table cheated,” Nursey says. He drops his head onto Will’s knee, and takes Will’s wrist again, drawing his fingers idly along the lines he’d drawn over Will’s veins. It’s a loose touch, light enough to make Will’s breath catch in his throat, because in any other circumstances, he’d call it _teasing_ , _flirting_ , but that’s not--they don’t--

 

“Uh,” he says. “Nursey?”

 

Abruptly, Nursey lets him go. “I’m tired,” he says. He puts his chin on Will’s thigh and looks up at him, soft green eyes and long lashes. “Will you take me home?”

 

“I--” Will snaps his mouth shut before he can say something stupid. “Yeah, dude. C’mon, let’s find your jacket.” 

 

With a little more bro-style brusqueness than might be strictly necessary, he pulls Nursey up to his feet and takes his arm, half-guiding, half-dragging him over to the coat closet in the back of the kitchen where the team always shoves their jackets and hoodies before a kegster. He helps Nursey into his jacket and digs his own hoodie out from under the pile. 

 

He shoves one arm into a sleeve and hesitates at the other, looking at the design Nursey had drawn on his skin. It’s not all that amazing--Nursey’s not really artistic in the way that Lardo is, though Will’s never heard him claim to be. But there’s something oddly lovely about the way that Nursey had worked his body into the picture, his veins and his freckles and the fading bruises from their last game. He almost doesn’t want to cover it. 

 

“Dex?” Nursey hooks his chin onto Will’s shoulder sleepily. “Whatcha doing?”

 

“Nothing.” Will pulls his sleeve up, and then turns so that he can tug Nursey’s arm over his shoulder, steadying him a little when he wobbles. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

 

Nursey’s quiet for a moment. Will’s fingers had dipped under the sleeve of his jacket when he’d taken his arm, and the skin of his wrist is warm. After a few seconds he sighs, and leans a little more of his weight against Will. “Okay,” he says, and looks at him. The smile he gives Will is small and tired, and his eyes are still hazy, but they crinkle gently at the corners, so Will knows it’s real. “Okay. Home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so Nursey is _mostly_ right here, in that, generally, mixing antidepressants and alcohol is not a death-inducing combination. it is not, however, medically a good idea, and different antidepressants interact with alcohol differently, and different bodies react with _all_ medications and substances differently. many people _do_ drink on their meds to varying degrees (and with varying degrees of side effects and safely), but like...make safe/informed choices? i guess? IDK my babies.  <3
> 
> sorry for the wait between updates! In my defense, I wrote like 18k words worth of fic for Nursey Week?


	3. you play til it’s perfect, you play til you ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek plays hard because he likes to win, sure. But he won't lie and say he doesn't like the hurt that comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK WHO IS AWFUL AT REGULAR UPDATES IT IS ME HELLO. Ahem. See the end notes for content warnings, please. Mind the usual tags, though this is a mild one.

“Mozart was crazy. Flat fucking crazy. Bat-shit, I hear,  
But his music's not crazy; It's balanced, it's nimble, it's crystalline clear…  
And you play 'til it's perfect, You play 'til you ache,  
You play 'til the strings or your fingernails break…  
And everything else goes away.  
Everything else goes away.  
Everything else goes away.”

(“Everything Else,” _Next to Normal_ )

 

“ _Bed_ ,” Derek groans, face-planting directly into the comforter equivalent of nirvana without bothering to take off his shoes. He reaches out blindly, finds a pillow, and smooshes it over his head, which is still aching slightly from probable dehydration and crowd noise. “Ugh, I love bed. Bed is the _best_.”

 

“You’re gonna regret it if you go to sleep like that,” Dex’s voice says from behind him. He sounds vaguely amused and somewhat fond, and then makes an annoyed grunting sound. “Oh, what the fuck, Nurse, you left your shit all over the floor.”

 

“Shh, no I didn’t,” Derek mumbles into the bedspread. “’s an illusion.”

 

He hears Dex snort. “It’s an illusion you’re gonna break your neck tripping over in the middle of the night. Rinse your gear, Nursey.”

 

Derek heaves a sigh and rolls onto his back, giving Dex his most pitiful look. “I will edit all your English papers for the rest of the semester if you do it for me,” he says.

 

Dex, his own hockey bag still slung over his shoulder, snorts at him as he heads into the bathroom. Derek hears the _thump_ of the bag hitting the tiled floor, and then Dex comes back out and starts stripping with locker room efficiency, hanging up his suit and changing into sweatpants and worn Bangor Rams Hockey t-shirt. “No deal.”

 

Yeah, he hadn’t really expected that to work. Sighing, Derek drags himself to his feet, his body protesting the motion. They’d played hard tonight, taking the ice against Quinnipiac and coming away with a 5-2 victory. Derek had gotten a goal in the second off an assist from Bitty, and had ridden the adrenaline high from that through the end of the game.

 

His body still tingles a little from the celly, and he can still feel the impact of Dex slamming into his side, yelling gleefully in his ear as his arms wrapped around his middle and practically swept him off the ice.

 

Unfortunately, he can _also_ still feel the throbbing ache in his knee where he’d wrenched it in a bad fall in the third period, taking a check from one of Quinnipiac’s d-men. He wobbles, putting out an arm to steady himself on the headboard and hissing slightly. Carefully, he places a hand over the sorest spot on his knee, and can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his suit pants.

  
Welp, he thinks, that’s never a good sign.

 

“ _Dex_ ,” he whines, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the running bathtub. “I’m _wounded_.”

 

“You are _not_ ,” Dex retorts. He pokes his head out of the bathroom, and then pauses at whatever he sees on Derek’s face. “Shit. Are you?”

 

Derek shrugs. “I mean.” He sits back down, and his knee screams at the motion. “I may have fucked my knee up, like. A tiny bit.”

 

Dex wrinkles his whole face. “What the _fuck_ , Nursey,” he says, exasperated. He disappears back into the bathroom, and a moment later, the water turns off. Derek hears him rummaging for a moment, and then he comes to sit on the edge of Derek’s bed, toweling off his hands. “C’mon,” he says. “Take your pants off, let’s see how bad it is.”

 

Derek very carefully does not choke on his tongue. “Buy a dude dinner, Dex, Jesus,” he chirps, as much to see Dex’s cheeks go pink as to save face, but reaches down to untie the laces on his dress shoes and kick them off. Dex raises his eyebrows at his socks--gray and purple argyle, because Derek dresses with _style_ , okay?--and then goes a shade pinker as Derek undoes his belt and pushes his pants off his hips. “Chill, Poindexter, I’m not commando under here.”

 

“I _know_ that,” Dex says quickly, but he’s still red. His gaze travels down, though, and he blanches. Nervously, Derek follows his eyes, and can’t help his own wince. He’d avoided looking earlier, but now he can see that his left knee is badly swollen, already starting to bruise from where he’d hit the ice. No wonder it hurts like a motherfucker. “ _Jesus_ , Nurse,” Dex hisses. “That’s from this game?”

 

“I guess, yeah. From that hit in the third.” Derek reaches down to prod at the bruising, and Dex swats his hand away.

 

“Don’t _poke_ at it, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Like. So much shit, man. Have you not been paying attention?”

  
Dex gives him a flat look. “I’m not even gonna respond to that,” he says. He gets up off the bed and picks up Derek’s hockey bag from the floor, tossing it unceremoniously into the bathroom before coming back into the bedroom with the ice bucket. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna go get you some ice. Serious question, and if you lie to me I swear to God I will legitimately drown you in the bathtub--do you think one of the trainers needs to look at your knee?”

 

Derek hesitates, thinking. It hurts like fuck, but he was able to walk on it okay, and it doesn’t do anything _too_ worrying when he bends it. And anyway, the twinges of pain are almost reassuring. “No,” he decides. “No, I’m okay. Ice would be awesome, dude.”

 

“You owe me so fucking big for this,” Dex grumbles, but he picks up the hotel key card and stomps out of the room.

 

Bro, Derek thinks fondly, watching the door shut behind him, I already do. In so many ways.

 

Dex is gone long enough for Derek to limp over to his duffle, haul off the rest of his suit, hang it up, and change into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt. He leaves the duffle and his backpack within reach of his bed and is scrolling through Instagram, liking every single one of Ransom’s gratuitous post-game victory selfies, when Dex comes back with the ice bucket in his arms.

 

“Okay, got you ice. Oh, hey, you even hung up some of your shit.” Dex nudges the door shut with his foot and tosses the key down on the desk.

 

Derek puts on his chillest grin. “Hey, even I respect a good suit, alright?”

 

Dex snorts. “Sure, you respect your suits, but your d-man can rinse your sweaty-ass gear, huh?”

 

“William,” Derek says, putting a hand to his chest. “I am _injured_. Wounded in the line of duty. I have taken on devastating bodily harm, protecting our heroic goalie--”

 

“Yeah, okay, okay.” Dex rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. He heads into the bathroom and comes back a few moments later with a plastic bag of ice and a hand towel. “Here. Twenty on, twenty off, you know the drill.”

 

Derek takes the ice from him. “Thanks, man.”

 

Dex rolls his eyes. “Uh huh,” he says. “I’m gonna go rinse your shit now.”

 

He disappears back into the bathroom. A moment later, the bath turns on, along with the slightly muffled strains of Bob Dylan, tinny as it drifts out of Dex’s phone speakers. Derek smiles at the predictability, leaning back against the pillows and putting the bag of ice on his knee.

 

The towel doesn’t let enough of the cold through, so he ditches it after a few moments, and puts the ice on his skin directly. The cold on his heated, swollen knee makes him hiss, and he bites his lip, shifting slightly. It’s good, he tells himself. The cold is good, the pain is good. He played hard, he did his job; the shots that got through Chowder didn’t get past him--he wasn’t even on the ice.

 

It hurts, but he earned this pain. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s--

 

“Nursey?”

 

Derek startles, opening his eyes and looking up, a little guiltily. Dex is frowning at him from the bathroom door. “Hey,” Derek says, nervously. “Uh, sorry. I spaced.”

 

“I figured,” Dex says. He nods to Derek’s knee. “Your twenty minutes are up. Take a break.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Derek takes the ice off, wrapping it carefully in the towel. The swelling isn’t any worse, but when he touches his skin, it’s cold, not hot.

 

Dex comes to sit next to him, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed. “You played hard today,” he says.

 

It doesn’t come out forced like it used to, when they first started playing together and one of them would do something really amazing and a “good game, man” would have to be dragged out like a sore tooth. Now, though, Dex’s face is soft, open, even a little impressed. Derek ducks his head, not really sure how to deal with that. “Thanks, man.”

 

“I mean it, man. That backhand? Fuckin’ amazing.” Dex grins, leaning back on his hands. “Seriously. You were crazy out there.”

 

Derek smiles. He’ll take the win. “It was a crazy game.” Quinnipiac’s good, even if their standings don’t really reflect it--they play hard, they sure as hell _hit_ hard, and their D is intense as fuck. Derek had taken more than a few checks today, and played through them, but then, he always does--he likes it like that. He loves the way his muscles ache after a hard game, the way his skin blossoms into blacks and blues and purples.

 

On the other hand, he’s about ninety percent sure that if he tells Dex that, Dex will give him what he’s rapidly starting to call his Sad Derek Eyes, so he shrugs. “It was a good game,” he says. “We all played crazy.”

 

“Truth.” Dex pushes a hand through his short hair. “I mean, did you see Chowder tonight? He was on _fire_.”

 

Grateful for the focus shifting off him, Derek nods. “Dude, that save in the third? I could’ve kissed him, man, I swear.”

 

Dex, predictably, goes red enough that his freckles vanish into his blush. “Dude,” he protests.

 

“Oh, like you wouldn’t,” Derek teases. Dex sputters, and Derek laughs. He shifts, trying to get more comfortable. The motion jostles his knee, and he mutters a “fuck” without thinking, reaching down a hand to soothe the ache.

 

Dex huffs. “Jesus, you’re a mess,” he says, but there’s a twinge of concern in his voice, like he wants to be exasperated but he can’t quite get there. He grabs one of the pillows Derek isn’t leaning against--the bed’s a queen, there are plenty--and gently curls a hand under Derek’s knee, easing the pillow under it.

 

His touch is careful, almost tender, and Derek bites the inside of his cheek and tells his dick, very firmly, to _Not. React._

 

“I was going to say twenty minutes off, but I guess you should put some ice back on,” Dex says. He’s still got his hand on Derek’s knee, but after a moment, he gives himself a little jolt and takes his hand away, clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh. I’ll refill the bag.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says. His skin is tingling where Dex’s fingers had touched him. He feels...he _feels_ , which is odd for him, off the ice, away from the rush and sweep and roar of a game or a practice. He takes a deep breath, and then another one, slow and careful. Steadying.

 

Dex comes back with a new bag of ice. “Here,” he says, holding it out for him. He sits down again, frowning slightly. “You okay? You look like you’re thinking really hard.”

 

“Yeah.” Derek lays the ice against his knee again, this time with the towel in place. He doesn’t want the sharpness of the direct cold anymore. “I, uh.” He swallows. “You ever just--You ever, like, play hard, harder than you should, just because it kind of...It makes you feel like you’re living?”

 

Dex furrows his brow. He draws his legs up, draping his arms over them. “No,” he says finally. “I mean...Sort of, I guess. I feel good when I’m on the ice--Like, I know my adrenaline’s running like crazy, and my blood’s up, and all that shit? But it’s not like I don’t feel like I’m not alive the rest of the time.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, and Derek knows what question is coming before he even asks it.

 

“Do you feel like that?”

 

Derek leans back against the pillows, holding the ice in place with one hand. “When I’m on the ice,” he says, softly, “I feel like--I feel like I’m really alive. Like, really, really _alive_. Like I’m connected to my body, and my spirit’s singing, and…”

 

Dex frowns. “There’s such a thing as playing too hard, man,” he says, and Derek knows what he’s thinking when he says it--about every time Derek’s stayed on the rink after practice has ended, every time Derek’s staggered off the ice almost sick from suicides, every time Derek’s taken a check that should have put him out of a game but gotten up anyway.

 

“I know.” Derek licks his lips, hesitant. “I play hard because I need to be perfect,” he says. “Even--even when I know it’s gonna fuck me over, even when I know it’s a bad idea. Not because I need to win, but because I need to be _good_. I need the team to want me, because if I lose hockey, if they don’t want me anymore, then I don’t--I don’t have that _feeling_ anymore, you know? I don’t have that...”

 

He trails off, swallowing hard. Dex is watching him, his expression unreadable, and Derek forces a soft laugh. “Sorry,” he says, pitching his voice to lightness. “Hard games make me existential, I guess.”

 

Dex’s eyes soften. “I think you’re just an existential person,” he says, but he says it fondly, reaching out to punch Derek’s shoulder gently. He glances at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s getting late,” he says. “We oughta get to bed.”

 

It’s a subject change, and Derek’s grateful for it. “Yeah,” he says. He runs his tongue over his teeth and makes a face. “Ugh, toothbrushing,” he laments, casting a sad glance at the distance between the bed and the bathroom. He picks up the bag of ice and puts it down on the floor, then stretches out his hands for Dex’s. “Help me up?”

 

“Needy,” Dex says, rolling his eyes, but he gets to his feet and then helps Derek up to his. Derek winces as he puts his weight on his bad leg, but the ice has dulled the pain a little, and it’s not too bad. He bends down to pull his toiletry bag out of his duffle and hauls himself toward the bathroom. “Hey,” Dex calls after him. “Take your meds!”

 

Derek snorts as he limps into the bathroom, vaguely regretting telling Dex his med schedule. Still, it’s probably good--he always gets more forgetful on roadies, because his usual schedule is all messed up. “Thanks, bro,” he says. He digs the bottle out of his bag, flips the cap, and dry-swallows a pill, then brushes his teeth.

 

Dex is stretched out on his own bed when Derek limps back into the room, and Derek drags himself back into bed, reaching out to pick up the bag of ice again. “Set an alarm for that or something,” Dex says, not looking up from his phone. “Or you’ll forget to take it off.”

 

He says it matter-of-factly, easily, not like he’s being patronizing or like he thinks Derek can’t take care of himself, and Derek appreciates that. He takes out his phone and sets an alarm for twenty minutes, then spends a minute or so worming around and trying to get comfortable, pushing the blankets back and putting one pillow under his back, one under his knee, and then putting the ice back on.

 

Once he’s settled, he looks up at Dex to see if he’s good to turn the light out, and finds Dex looking at him with something like amusement on his face. His skin prickles, but he’s not sure with what. “What?”

 

Dex flushes. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “I set an alarm for tomorrow. An hour before breakfast, gives us both enough time to get our gear and shower. That cool?” Derek gives him a tired thumbs up. “Cool.” Dex reaches for the lamp between their beds, then pauses. “You good if I turn this off?”

 

Derek nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Lights off, bedtime.”

 

Dex chuckles. “Great.” He turns off the light.

 

The room plunges into darkness and quiet. Derek looks up at the ceiling, trying to focus on his breathing. Quinnipiac’s in a Connecticut town that feels quieter than Samwell, and he’s never slept well in silence. He wishes there was an air conditioner or a heater or something, just a hum that might make a little noise. Still, Dex’s breathing is something.

 

“Hey, Nursey,” Dex says.

 

“Mm,” Derek says.

 

“Are there--” Dex is quiet for a moment, and Derek can hear the hesitation in his voice. “Are there other things that make you feel like hockey does? Alive like that, I mean?”

 

Derek opens his mouth to answer, and then pauses. The obvious answer--and a true one--is sex, but he’s not sure he wants to say that. Dex’ll get uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want to break this moment, this fragile thing that’s happening between them. Writing is another one, but he doesn’t know how to explain that.

 

But then there’s Dex himself, and the strange way that they’ve always, even when they were at each other’s throats, _clicked_ together like nothing Derek had ever felt before. Dex puts a spark in Derek’s blood like something he doesn’t even know how to explain, let alone put into words.

 

He takes a breath. “It’s hard to explain,” he says. “But yes.” He pauses, takes another breath, and adds, “Especially now. Yes.”

 

Dex is quiet for a long time, and for a moment, Derek thinks he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, his voice is soft, but genuine. “Good,” he says. “That’s...Good.”

 

Derek closes his eyes, lets himself feel the cool sheets against his back, the brush of air from the ceiling fan over his skin, the chill of the ice against his knee. He listens to the sound of Dex’s even breathing as, a bit at a time, the ache in his muscles from a game played too hard fades to something gentle and satisfied and tired.

 

Okay, he thinks.

 

_Good._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Mild hockey injuries, general discussion of depressive symptoms, and a lack of self-care that could be considered passive self-harm. 
> 
> So, there is probably some irony in the fact that it was my depression that kept me from updating this story about depression? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I'M SORRY AND I LOVE YOU ALL THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. For your amusement, please know that my nicknames for the boys in this chapter were William "I'm Not Blushingm You're Blushing" Poindexter and Derek "Play It Cool, Dude, PLAY IT COOL" Nurse. 
> 
> Another small note: If you, like me, are the kind of person who is super bad about remembering to take meds, it actually _can_ be really helpful to tell a friend your schedule and ask them to remind you. (That friend who you told about your depression and they gave you the Big Sad Eyes like they just wanted to wrap you in blankets and protect you from your brain and then asked what they could do to help while you were like "ahhhhh idk what to do with your feelings stoppppp"? Yeah. That person. It'll like, make their day. They'll probably be less of a dick about it than Dex.)
> 
> If you want to chat with me about fandom, puppies, politics, and a bunch of other random stuff, I'm on tumblr: @geniusorinsanity. My ask box is always open for prompts, questions, feels, or just to chit chat.


	4. a place we can go where the pain will go away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dex has his laptop open to his programming notes, a tupperware of blueberry pie on his desk, and a can of Red Bull halfway to his mouth when Chowder comes through the door of his dorm room, his expression tight and nervous. “Hey,” Dex says, pulling his headphones off. The strains of ACDC go from blaring to distant. “What’s up, dude?”
> 
> Chowder pushes his hood back, heedless of the few raindrops clinging to it, his brows furrowed. “Have you heard from Nursey today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter literally in one day so if it's slightly disjointed, I apologize in advance.
> 
> I'm putting some content warnings up here this time: This chapter is a little suspenseful, and contains characters that are seriously concerned about another character's safety. If this might be triggering for you, please read the end notes for slightly spoilery but more thorough warnings.

 

 

**Chapter 4: a place we can go where the pain will go away**

 

There's a world, there's a world I know

A place we can go where the pain will go away

There's a world where the sun shines each day

 

(“There’s a World”, _Next to Normal_ )

 

 

Will has his laptop open to his programming notes, a tupperware of blueberry pie on his desk, and a can of Red Bull halfway to his mouth when Chowder comes through the door of his dorm room, his expression tight and nervous. “Hey,” Will says, pulling his headphones off. The strains of ACDC go from blaring to distant. “What’s up, dude?”

 

Chowder pushes his hood back, heedless of the few raindrops clinging to it, his brows furrowed. “Have you heard from Nursey today?”

 

Will frowns. “Nursey?” It’s a Sunday, so they haven’t had practice. He digs around under the piles of notebooks on his desk-- _fuck_ midterm season, honestly--until he finds his phone, unlocking it and opening his messages. They didn’t have games this weekend, and the last text he has from Nursey is in the group chat, before the kegster on Friday night, saying he wasn’t going to be there and everyone should do a shot in his honor.

 

“Uh, nothing since before the kegster,” he says, putting his phone down and looking back at Chowder. “Why?”

 

Chowder fidgets with his keys. “We were supposed to get lunch,” he says. “And he didn’t show up. Which really isn’t like him, you know? He’s good about sticking to stuff we schedule. And I texted him a bunch of times and he didn’t respond, and then I called him, and at first it just rang and then it started just going straight to voicemail.”

 

He looks really antsy, and it’s starting to make Will nervous. He turns off his music and puts his headphones on his desk. “It’s Nursey,” he says. “He probably forgot his phone and just let it die, or something. I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he plugs it in and sees all your messages, dude. He’s not pissed at you.”

 

“No, Dex, he--” Chowder bites his lip. “Yesterday. We were supposed to get lunch yesterday.”

 

Something twists in Will’s stomach. “Wait,” he says, trying to make that compute. “What?”

 

“We were supposed to meet up at the dining hall for lunch, and he was gonna help me with my readings for my English class,” Chowder says, leaning forward. “And I texted him like fifteen minutes before to make sure he was still coming--”

 

Will snorts and nods, because yeah, that’s par for the course with Nursey; he doesn’t flake on planned shit, but it’s never a bad idea to remind him that stuff is happening just in case. “Okay?”

 

“Only he didn’t text back,” Chowder continues, his eyes troubled. “And didn’t show up. I waited like half an hour and I kind of figured he just forgot but when he didn’t text me back I got worried, and then he didn’t answer when I called, and now his phone must be dead, and.”

 

He huffs a sigh. “I guess I’m just nervous because it’s been like a day and a half since I was supposed to see him and it’s been like two days since I’ve heard from him and I’m freaking out about it. And I was hoping you’d tell me that you’ve heard from him so that I could stop worrying.”

 

“I...haven’t,” Will says, slowly. He looks at his phone again, as if re-opening his texts will somehow make a new message from Nursey appear. “But now I, uh. Kind of wish I had.”

 

Chowder starts chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah.” He starts fiddling with his keys again. Will picks up the plastic Rubix cube on his desk and tosses it to him. Chowder plucks it out of the air, gives him a brief, grateful look, and immediately starts twisting the sides--not trying to solve it, Will knows, just moving things to have something to do with his hands.

 

“Okay here’s the thing,” Chowder says in a rush, after a minute or so of anxious silence. “I think I’m freaking out because now we know that Nursey’s got this history of--” He breaks off, looking worriedly at Will. “I just--I don’t want to invade his privacy or anything if he’s okay, but if he’s _not_ okay, I don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I want to go check on him. Will you come with me?”

 

Will probably has four hours of studying he needs to do, never mind the amount of notes he needs to go over, plus two problem sets for his ten a.m. tomorrow.

 

He doesn’t even have to think.

 

“Let me get my shoes,” he says, and closes his laptop.

 

Nursey lives across the quad in suite-style housing. The rain that must have been falling when Chowder came over to Will’s has receded to a gross drizzle, but Will is still grateful for his SMH hoodie in the chill air as they cross the wet grass. He can see Chowder’s fingers moving inside the pocket of his Sharks sweatshirt, and realizes he took the Rubix cube with him.

 

Probably a good thing, he thinks, a little absently. Chowder’s told him before that his ADHD gets worse when he’s worried or stressed, and having something to focus that nervous energy on is probably good.

 

The door to Nursey’s suite is locked, and Chowder hangs back slightly while Will knocks lightly, and then a lot harder. “Nursey,” he calls. He listens, frowns, and then raises his voice. “Hey. Nurse! Open up!”

 

Chowder puts his ear to the door. “Maybe one of his roommates is home?”

 

Will shakes his head. “They’d answer the knocking,” he says. He digs his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got one of their numbers, hang on.” He has Jordan’s, he’s pretty sure; he’s in Will’s calculus class and a bunch of them had exchanged numbers to get notes in case anyone was out sick.

 

He finds it, and fires off a quick text. _**Hey, it’s Will from calc. Is anyone home at your suite? None of us have heard from Nursey in a few days. I’m here but no one’s answering**_

 

They wait a few minutes, leaning against the wall in the hallway. Chowder fidgets with the Rubix cube, and Will watches, almost wishing he had one, too.

 

Finally, his phone buzzes. _**hey dude. I’m home in RI this wkend and idk about Max or AJ. i cn txt them but if they’re not answering they’re prob not home. Idk re: derek but he was feeling shitty on fri and he wasn’t awake when i left yesterday.**_

 

There’s a pause while Will stares at the message, and then another buzz. _**sorry man.**_

 

He swallows, a sinking pit in his stomach. _**np. Thanks**_ , he texts back, and puts his phone away. “Okay,” he says. “Come on.”

 

Chowder looks at him, confused. “Where are we going?”

 

“To find Nursey’s RA,” Will says. “Jordan says he doesn’t think anyone’s home and that Nursey wasn’t doing good on Friday. I officially don’t think it’s a dick move to invade his privacy, and if it is, I’ll take the heat.” He gestures around the hall. “Do you know what room she’s in?”

 

Chowder shakes his head. “No, but she’ll have a tag on her door. Let’s go.”

 

They go up the hallway one way, strike out, and go the other way instead. One of the doors in the other direction has an RA tag that says “NITA! :)”, and they knock on the door until a small girl with brown skin and rumpled black hair looks up at him through thick glasses, looking like she’s just been woken from a nap. “You guys are not my residents,” she says, voice sleepy and confused. She has a soft accent that Will can’t place. “Can I help you?”

 

Will opens his mouth, but Chowder charges ahead. “Yeah, sorry! We’re Nursey’s friends--Derek Nurse, in suite 211? And we haven’t heard from him in like two days and he has some mental health stuff going on and we’re really worried and we were hoping you could let us into his suite so we can check on him?”

 

The RA--Nita, Will figures, from the sign--blinks a few times, and then gives herself a little shake like she’s still trying to wake herself up. “Technically you should call campus police if you want to do a wellness check,” she says. “It’s not RA on-call hours.”

 

Will is one hundred percent sure that Nursey will kill him if campus police are called. It had taken more than a few conversations--some of them (most of them) involving yelling--for Will to get it, but he knows that Nursey is doesn’t feel good about cops, even campus ones. “He’ll kill us if we call SUPD and he’s fine,” he says. He puts on his best _please do me this favor_ face, the one pulls on his mom when he wants extra desserts. “Please?”

 

Nita frowns briefly, but sighs. “Literally _only_ because Derek’s a great resident and I get worried about him too,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

 

She disappears back into her suite, and comes back a moment later wearing a Samwell Residence Life sweatshirt and a pair of fleecey-looking boots tugged over her leggings. “Okay,” she says, pulling her long hair into a ponytail. “I have to go down to the desk and get the master key. I’ll meet you by his door, alright?”

 

Will nods. “Alright.”

 

They head back to Nursey’s suite. Chowder knocks on the door again, his face hopeful, but there’s still no answer. He sighs. “Worth a try,” he says, looking at Will. Will gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but it feels stiff and fake on his face.

 

Nita comes off the elevator, a key in her hand. “Okay,” she says. “Excuse me, please.” They both step back to give her room, and she steps up to the door, knocking firmly. “Hello!” she calls. “RA, open the door, please!” She waits, listening, but there’s no answer. “RA, open the door, please,” she repeats, a touch louder. Will bites the inside of his cheek, his pulse beating in his ears.

 

After a moment, Nita sighs. “Damn it,” she mutters. “Fine.” She raises her voice. “Female RA, keying in!”

 

She slides the keycard into the door and types in a four-digit code--Nursey’s building is newer than Will’s; his door just takes a normal key--and opens the door.

 

Nursey’s living room is a bit of a mess in the same way that suites shared by four guys are always a bit of a mess, but Will doesn’t bother taking in the scenery. He heads right down the hallway, going for Nursey’s room with Chowder hot on his heels, heedless of Nita’s call of “Wait, I should really go first--”

 

The door to Nursey’s room is slightly cracked, and Will pushes it open without thinking. His brain, at some point between Nita opening the door and getting here, got rid of all conscious thought, transferring over to a nonstop loop of _be okay be okay be okay be okay_ , because Nursey being okay is literally the only thing that matters to him right now.

 

It’s dark inside the room, the shade drawn and lights off. Will has to pause for a second for his eyes to adjust, but then he sees the lump of blankets on Nursey’s bed, and that translates to _Nursey_. He crosses the room in three strides and pulls the duvet back, his heart in his throat.

 

Nursey is curled up on his side, headphones on, his face relaxed and calm and clearly, Will realizes in an instant, fast asleep. He’s got one arm looped around his pillow and the other splayed out across the bed. There’s a splotch of drool on his pillow under his parted lips, and the relief that goes through Will is so heady it makes him dizzy.

 

Relief gives way almost instantly to an anger that he knows-- _knows_ \--is misplaced and just his own inability to handle his shit, but Will breathes out hard and sits heavily down on the edge of Nursey’s bed. He reaches down and shakes Nursey’s shoulder firmly. “Hey,” he says roughly. “ _Hey_. Wake up.”

 

Nursey comes awake with a groggy groan. “Wha--” he mumbles, and blinks his eyes open. “The fuh--” He groans again, rubbing his eyes. “Dex? What the fuck?”

 

“Good morning, asshole,” Will says. “You almost gave Chowder and me a fucking heart attack.”

 

“What?” Nursey pushes his headphones off his head and sits up, then promptly goes grey, dropping back onto his elbows. “Shit,” he says, blinking a few times.

 

Chowder scrambles forward to look at him. “Are you okay?”

 

Nursey puts a hand to his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m--fuck, I’m fine. What are you doing here?” He squints in the darkness. “Who else is here?”

 

“Close your eyes,” Will says, and reaches over to turn on Nursey’s desk lamp. Nursey winces as he opens his eyes again, and Will can’t find it in him to feel particularly bad about it.

 

Then Nursey’s eyes land on Nita. “Nita?” he says, alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Surprise,” she says, a sad fondness in her voice. “Your friends were worried, Derek. They asked me to do a wellness check.”

 

“A wellness check?” Nursey frowns, his face scrunching with confusion. “But I didn’t--I mean, I haven’t.” He looks at Will, his eyes going a little wide. “I didn’t _do_ anything. I swear, guys.”

 

He looks flustered and unhappy but like he’s telling the truth, and Will glances at Chowder. Chowder licks his lower lip, and crouches down to Nursey’s bed. “Nursey,” he says gently. Will feels a little flare of jealousy at how easy it is for him to soften his voice like that, when Will’s first instinct when he’s worried is to shout. “Nursey, do you know what day it is?”

 

Nursey swallows visibly. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Sa--Saturday?”

 

He sounds hopeful, and it’s clearly a guess. Will feels a pang, and some of his anger dies away. “Nursey,” he says. “Nursey, it’s--it’s Sunday night.”

 

Nursey’s lips part. “Oh,” he says. He sounds a little numb.

 

Will doesn’t know what to do with that voice or the look on Nursey’s face right now, but he knows a few things about taking charge of a situation, so he does that, instead. “Nita, thanks for letting us in,” he says, standing up. “We really, really appreciate it.”

 

“Glad to help,” she says. She glances at Nursey, hesitating. “Derek, are you sure you’re okay?” Nursey gives a slightly jerky nod, and Nita returns it. “Okay. I’ll let myself out. I’m going to check in with you when I’m on rounds later tonight, so make sure you answer the door, or I’m gonna key in again.”

 

He gives a shaky laugh. “Okay,” he says. She smiles, gentle, and then waves to them and leaves.

 

Will hears her footsteps recede down the hallway, and then the door to the suite shut, but he’s only half paying attention. “When did you last eat anything? Or drink anything?” he asks Nursey.

 

“Uh,” Nursey says. “Friday, I guess?”

 

“I’m gonna get you some water, then.” Will picks up Nursey’s water bottle from his desk. “C, help him sit up, he looks woozy as fuck. Don’t freak out when you plug your phone in, Nursey, but you’re gonna have a bunch of voicemails.”

 

He leaves the room and goes to the the little half-kitchen off the common room, filling the water bottle at the sink. He crouches down by the mini-fridge, looking inside for something food-like, and finds a bag of clementines. Grabbing three, along with a paper towel, he heads back to Nursey’s room, and finds Nursey sitting up against his headboard, looking tired and bleary-eyed, and Chowder perpendicular to him, his legs slung over Nursey’s lap.

 

“Here,” Will says. He opens the water bottle and hands it to Nursey, and then tugs Nursey’s desk chair over to the bed, sitting down. He watches Nursey take a few sips from the bottle, taking in the way his hair is mussed and the lines his pillow has left in his cheek, the few days’ worth of stubble growth, the exhaustion on his face. “Are you okay?” he asks finally.

 

Nursey lowers the water bottle and nods tiredly. “It happens sometimes,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair. Chowder purses his lips and holds out a hand to Will, motioning for the clementines. Will passes them to him, along with the paper towel, and Chowder starts peeling one. “I get really bad insomnia, and I’ll get one, maybe two, three hours of sleep a night for a bunch of days in a row. And then eventually I just crash really hard.”

 

He scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s not usually this bad, though,” he admits. “And--” He winces, and gives Chowder a guilty look. “And we had plans, too. Shit. I’m really sorry, C.”

 

“Don’t be,” Chowder says firmly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He finishes peeling the clementine and hands half of it to Nursey. “Eat.”

 

Nursey takes it without arguing, which is how Will knows he must really still be groggy. He forces himself to take a deep breath and stay calm. “I really am sorry, though,” Nursey says, swallowing a slice. “Like. It wasn’t cool for me to drop off the earth.”

 

Will shrugs. “We were worried that we were invading your privacy, honestly.”

 

“It’s okay. I would’ve done the same thing.” Nursey finishes the last piece of orange, and Chowder wordlessly hands him the other half and starts peeling another clementine. Nursey rubs his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I just slept like two days and I’m still fucking tired.”

 

Chowder glances at Will, and Will chews the inside of his cheek. “Finish the fruit and drink more water,” he says. “Then take a shower. We’ll stay in, get dinner, and watch a movie or something.”

 

Nursey blinks. “You guys are gonna stay?”

 

“Yup,” Chowder says, immediate and decisive. “You’re tired and you seem all mixed up and you’ve got your Guilty Sad face on so we’re totally gonna stay til you're feeling better. No arguing.”

 

Nursey stares at him, brow furrowed, but Chowder looks back, firm. Goalie Stare, Will thinks. Nursey doesn’t stand a chance, and a moment later, he gives a faint laugh. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Thanks, guys.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Chowder says. He hands Nursey another clementine half. “Eat this.”

 

They sit there together while Nursey eats all three clementines and drinks half his water, and then hauls himself out of bed, wobbling slightly and then steadying himself on Will’s shoulder. “You good?” Will asks, looking up at him.

 

“I’m good,” Nursey says. He smiles faintly, and heads out of the room. A minute later, Will hears the shower turn on.

 

On the bed, Chowder puffs out his cheeks and exhales, a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay, okay. Everything’s good. Everything’s good.” He pauses. “Right?”

 

“Everything’s good,” Will confirms, but he understands the need to ask. His hands are shaking a little with faded adrenaline, and his chest feels tight, like they’ve dodged some kind of horrible bullet. He rubs the back of his neck. “Fuck,” he sighs, and slumps back in his chair.

 

Chowder wraps the clementine peels carefully in the paper towel and puts the bundle on Nursey’s desk next to the bed, then nudges gently at Will’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I dragged you with me,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I was like. Really freaked out that something might have happened and I didn’t want to find out on my own.”

 

Will shakes his head. “No. I get it. I’m glad you got me.” He doesn’t want to think about how awful it would have been to _find_ Nursey if something--but he wants to think about the idea of Chowder finding him by himself even less.

 

Just the thought makes him feel sick, and he pushes it away. “We should order some dinner,” he says. “What do you think, Little Thai Kitchen? He likes Thai and I know that place is really careful with the peanut oil.”

 

Chowder nods. “I’ve got them on my Seamless app.”

 

Will digs his debit card out of his pocket. “Take my card. I got paid this week.”

 

“Nursey’ll get pissed if we buy for him,” Chowder says, but he takes it.

  
Will shrugs. “So he’ll be pissed,” he says. “I can handle him.”

 

By the time Nursey gets out of the shower, Will and Chowder are on the couch in his common room, scrolling through the Netflix account hooked up through the PS3, Nursey’s duvet and extra blankets piled around them like a nest.

 

“There you are,” Nursey says he comes out of the hallway, and Will twists around to look at him. “Are you--” he stops, blinking. “Did you take all my blankets?”

 

“Frog cuddle party,” Chowder says. “Non-negotiable.” He moves over and pats the spot between himself and Will. “Come sit.”

 

Nursey shuffles over. He’s changed into a pair of flannel Andover pants, his SMH hoodie, and a pair of bright pink fuzzy socks that Will is absolutely not going to comment on, his hair a mess of damp curls. He didn’t shave when he showered--probably a good thing, Will thinks, given the tremor in his hands when he’d woken that the clementines hadn’t gotten rid of.

 

He still looks kind of rumpled and exhausted, but his eyes are bright and he looks less like death warmed over, so Will counts that as a win. “Scoot over more,” he tells Will, and Will makes a face at him and budges over a fraction of an inch. Nursey rolls his eyes and flops down, letting half his weight fall onto Will’s lap.

 

Will yelps. “ _Ow_ ,” he says, more out of surprise than real pain. “How the fuck are you made of that much muscle but your ass is that bony?”

 

“My ass is a gift, Poindexter, and you know it.” Nursey pulls his duvet onto his lap. “I’m starving,” he says. “We should get dinner.”

 

“We got you curry tofu from Little Thai Kitchen,” Chowder tells him. “And shut up, we already bought it, pay us back next time.”

 

Nursey, looking chagrined, closes his mouth. “Okay,” he says. He swallows. “I--Okay.” He clears his throat, and then settles back against the couch, nodding to the Netflix screen. “What’re we watching?”

 

“We weren’t sure what you were gonna be in the mood for,” Will says. “C said comedy, I said artsy hipster shit. Wanna be tiebreaker?”

 

Nursey chuckles. “Comedy,” he says. “But like, so-bad-it’s-good comedy, not real comedy. I watch a lot of Mystery Science Theater when I’m like this.”

 

Will snorts. It’s not what he really expected from Nursey, but it makes perfect sense--half meme, half obscurity. “Sounds great,” he says.

  
“I don’t know what that is,” Chowder says. His phone starts ringing, and he glances at it. “Oh, that’s food.”

 

“I’ll go get it,” Will says. “Nursey, you explain.” He leaves Nursey to explain the best movie-meets-show ever made while he goes downstairs. By the time he comes back, Chowder looks like he can’t decide if he’s excited or doubtful, and Nursey is grinning. “Did you pick a movie?” he asks, plopping back down in his seat and handing the food to Chowder.

 

Nursey nods. “ _Horrors of Spider Island_ ,” he says, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “Very spooky. Very scary.” He grins, and for the first time since Chowder had burst into his room earlier that night, something really relaxes in Will’s chest. “You ready, bro?”

 

“You bet,” Will says, as Chowder unpacks food and hands out napkins and chopsticks and take-out containers.

 

The movie, true to form, is as awful and wonderful as MST3K almost always is, but they're all pretty emotionally exhausted. They eat quickly, and Will makes Nursey drink a full bottle of water, but before the second act, Chowder has dozed off with his head tilted back against the back of the couch, and Nursey is starting to nod off onto Will's shoulder.

 

Will has almost fallen asleep himself when his phone buzzes on the arm of the couch, and he jolts awake, grabbing for it before the sound can start. He clicks the button on the side to silence it and looks at it blearily, trying to figure out who called him, then sees it’s an alarm: **NURSEY PM MEDS**.

 

He groans and puts the phone down, rubbing his eyes. He nudges Nursey gently. “Nursey,” he says. “Hey. Nurse. You gotta take your meds.”

 

Nursey makes an unhappy noise and smushes his face into his shoulder. “No,” he mumbles. “’m comfortable.”

 

“Nursey, you missed two days already,” Will says tiredly. He nudges him again. “Nursey. Come on.”

 

With a groan, Nursey picks his head up, giving him a pitiful look. “Get them for me? I’m warm.”

 

Will frowns, more than ready to say no, but Nursey _does_ look really warm, and soft, wrapped in his fuzzy blanket, with his hood mussing his curls, and Will’s mouth goes a little dry. “Alright,” he says with a sigh. “Alright, okay. Where are they?”

 

Nursey smiles. “On my dresser,” he says. “Bottle’ll say Sertraline on it.”

 

“Okay.” Will pushes his shoulder until Nursey moves off him. He shuffles down the hall to Nursey’s room, cracking his back, and flips the light on. It only takes him a second to find the bottle, even though there are a couple to choose from. He checks the dose, taps out a pill, and grabs Nursey’s water bottle on his way back to the living room. “Here,” he says, handing both to him.

 

“Thanks, man.” Nursey swallows the pill and washes it down, then puts the bottle on the floor, leaning back again. He rubs his eyes, then looks at Chowder. “Jesus, he’s out cold.”

 

“He was really freaked,” Will says, without thinking. “We both were. I mean, no one had heard from you, we thought you--”

 

Nursey looks stricken, and then guilty, and Will cuts himself off. “Shit,” he says. “Nursey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

 

“No, it’s okay.” Nursey gives him a faint, humorless smile, and if Will never sees that look on his face again, it’ll be too fucking soon. “Not like I haven’t given you reason to worry, right?”

 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s fair for us to--to jump to that.” Will swallows, hesitates, and then holds out an arm. Nursey looks a little surprised, but he shifts closer, into the circle of Will’s arm, and puts his head back on Will’s shoulder.

 

It takes them both a few minutes to relax again, the way they were before, but they manage. They’d turned off the overhead lights when they turned on the movie, and Will can feel himself getting sleepy again, the roller-coaster emotionality of the night starting to draw him under.

 

“I haven’t, you know,” Nursey says quietly.

 

The words are soft, but they’re enough to filter through the half-doze Will has started to slip into. Will rouses himself, picking his head up off the back of the couch. “Huh?”

 

“Tried--tried anything like that. Intentionally. Not since I was sixteen.”

 

 _Sixteen_ , Will thinks, his chest aching. It doesn’t hurt him deep in his heart like _eleven_ had, but still. He tightens his arm around Nursey’s shoulders, like he can hold him together with his own hands. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says.

 

“I know.” Nursey’s arm slips over his middle, draping across his waist. It’s almost an embrace, loose enough that he could pass it off as just getting comfortable, but Will knows it isn’t. “But I wanted you to know.”

 

Will closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I--Thank you.”

 

Nursey shifts slightly against him, and his hood falls back. Will moves his hand to pull it back up, but finds himself reaching for Nursey’s tumbled curls instead. He stops at the last second, remembering every comment Nursey’s ever made about hating people touching his hair. “You can,” Nursey mumbles, and Will realizes his fingertips must have made contact before he jerked back. “It’s okay.”

 

This isn’t them. This is...really not them. But what the fuck. It’s been a weird night. Will lets his fingers slip into Nursey’s hair, stroking the soft curls gently, and Nursey makes a quiet, content sound. “Sorry,” Nursey says, his heavy. “Think I’m gonna crash again.”

 

Will nods. “That’s okay,” he says. He doesn’t stop moving the hand in Nursey’s hair, but he reaches over with his other hand and pulls the blanket up, covering both of them. “Go to sleep, Nursey.”

 

Nursey’s hand curves over his waist, under his hoodie. Will can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re gonna stay?”

 

“Yeah, babe,” Will mumbles, already feeling himself starting to drift.

 

And then what he just said registers, and he snaps his eyes open, even as Nursey’s fingers twitch and he says, “What?”

 

“Bro,” Will corrects quickly. It’s fortunate, he thinks, that they’re both so fucking wiped, because otherwise he thinks Nursey would probably flip, and his own brain would definitely be a mess of internal screaming. As it is, he’s just kind of briefly mentally shrieking and deciding to ignore whatever Freudian slip has just happened in his head. He blames the fuzzy blankets. “I’m gonna stay.”

 

“Okay,” Nursey says.

 

He lets the weight of his arm settle over Will’s waist again, heavy, like he doesn’t trust Will not to leave. Something about that makes Will feel unsettled in a way that his momentary slip of the tongue hadn’t, and he lets his own arm drop more solidly over Nursey’s shoulders. He drops his other hand down and curls it around Nursey’s wrist where his hand rests by his hip. Nursey’s skin is warm, and when he wraps his fingers gently around his wrist, Will can feel his pulse.

 

“Go to sleep,” he says again, and closes his eyes.

 

He falls asleep to the beat of Nursey’s pulse under his fingers, steady and strong and alive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings (contains spoilers): significant concern about Nursey's safety due to past suicidal ideation when he stops responding to phone calls or texts and misses team engagements (spoiler is that he is fine); discussion of depressive symptoms including insomnia and hypersomnia, brief allusion to past suicide attempts. 
> 
> SO HOW ABOUT DEX'S APPARENT LACK OF VERBAL FILTER EH? Oh, angry lobster child. Just let yourself feel the feels. LET THEM HAPPEN.
> 
> Chowder was the best part of this chapter and ADHD!Chowder is a hill I will die on, you can fight me.
> 
> Wanna yell at me about fandom and mental health and nurseydex and stuff? Great! Hit me up on tumblr, @geniusorinsanity. 
> 
> Edit 4/11/17: Copy-edited for consistency to change all the internal "Dex"s to "Will"s because I did that in the last Dex POV chapter and not for this one. OOPS.


	5. clarity that you did not have before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because it's not a Bad Day doesn't mean it's not a bad day, and sometimes those are the most frustrating of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP the Dibs update basically Jossed the fuck outta this fic, huh? WHATEVER y'all I've been canon-divergent before and I SHALL BE CANON-DIVERGENT AGAIN. We shall prevail.
> 
> Content warnings for a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to a family history of alcohol issues, and discussion of medication side effects and depression/ADHD symptoms including focus impairment. Other than that, this one's pretty mild, but mind the usual warnings.

 

Make up your mind,

You want clarity

Take what you know

And then make it make sense

 

(“Make Up Your Mind”, _Next to Normal_ )

 

_The speech of birds, as in birdsong, but with exceptions. Pigeons do not sing. Vultures do not sing. A bargain, or a very small sum, as in, “he bought it for a song.” Think what we could purchase…_

 

_What we could purchase…_

 

_What we..._

 

The poem fades into grey again, and Derek swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes.

 

It’s been one of the shitty focus days, when his brain is fuzzy and foggy and stuff just keeps drifting in and out of his head. He’s got a ton of readings to do and none of them are making sense to him, and he’s already tried moving study locations to try and jog himself into focusing better. The library had been a bust, his dorm had been worse, with Jordan and Max having a fight over the TV, and he’d finally given up and gone to the Haus.

 

Except that Bitty had been on a Beyoncé kick in the kitchen, and Rans and Holster had been getting ready to start a Mario Kart tourney with Ollie and Wicky, and everything was loud and distracting as fuck, so he’d stolen a six-pack of Sam Adams from the downstairs fridge and gone to sit on the back porch.

 

He’s two (and a half, if he’s honest) beers in now, which probably isn’t helping--the first one, he’d just opened for flavor, but now the tips of his fingers are warm, where they’re usually always chilled from his typically shitty circulation. He’s bitten two of his nails down to the quick, a nervous, absent habit his moms have been trying to break him of for _years_ , and has worried at a third until it’s almost bleeding.

 

For all the good it’s done him. He’s read the same section of poetry over and over again, and has gotten as much out of it as if someone had just thrown the book at his head. Derek takes a sip of his beer, tucking his stinging finger against the cold bottle, and rubs his forehead.

 

Maybe the next time will be the charm.

 

The door to the Haus opens and shuts behind him, and he cranes his neck in time to see Dex come out, his expression curious and a little cautious. “Hey.”

 

Derek gives him a half-hearted salute with his bottle. “Yo.”

 

Dex comes to sit down next to him on the steps. “Bitty said you left in a ‘mood.’”

 

“It was loud.” Derek takes a sip. “You come to check on me, Dexy?” Dex’s cheeks pink, and he looks down, almost guilty. Derek frowns, prickling with a hint of irritation. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

 

“I know you don’t,” Dex says quickly. “I just wanted to make sure you were, y’know.” His lips twitch, wry. “ _Chill_.”

 

Derek snorts. “Fuck you, too, bro,” he says, and takes a sip of his beer.

 

He sees Dex watching him out of the corner of his eye as he drinks, and then the way Dex takes in the rest of the scene--the two already empty bottles, Derek’s bitten nails. He’s already getting excuses ready, expecting a lecture, but Dex just sighs a little, a frown tugging at his mouth.

 

“I thought you were gonna be more careful with this.”

 

Derek winces. Dex sounds softly worried, which is a _million times worse_ than sounding disappointed or pissed off or annoyed or anything else Derek expected. The kegster when he’d told Dex he’d watch his drinking feels like half a blur now, but he _has_ been trying to be better about it. It’s just on the shit days that it’s harder.

 

If he thinks too hard about that, it makes him a little queasy, and makes him think he should probably talk to Salma about it in a session, but he knows-- _knows_ \--she’ll bring up his dad, and he just doesn’t want to fucking deal with that. Derek rubs his forehead. “I know,” he says. “Sorry.”

 

Dex reaches out and takes his wrist, examining Derek’s bitten-down nails, and Derek braces for another comment, but Dex just squeezes briefly and then lets him go. “Rough day?”

 

Derek shrugs. “Something like that.”

 

“Yeah?” Dex takes one of the remaining bottles from the six pack and shifts to pull the multitool out of his back pocket, opening the cap and replacing the tool. He takes a long sip, and Derek finds himself watching his throat work as he swallows.

 

There’s a cluster of freckles trailing down over the side of Dex’s neck that looks like the Perseus constellation. Derek stares at it, transfixed, until Dex lowers the bottle. “You wanna tell me about it?”

 

“About what,” Derek says, like a fucking idiot. Because it’s definitely chill to zone out and stare at your bro’s freckles, right? Jesus, he’s so fucked.

 

“Whatever’s making your day shitty.”

 

Derek shrugs. “It’s not like, _shitty_ shitty. Just…” He waves his bottle vaguely. “Like, y’know. _Blah_ , shitty.”

 

Dex frowns at him, his brow furrowing the way it does when he’s trying to figure out a particularly difficult problem set. Derek tries to resist the urge to squirm under his gaze. “What?”

 

“I just,” Dex says, and then he twists his mouth slightly, rolling his beer bottle between his hands. “I don’t wanna, like, assume that when you’re looking or acting off that it’s because of mental health shit, you know? Like. You’re allowed to have an off day. I know you’re gonna have days that are just regular off days? But…” He shrugs one shoulder, looking almost guilty. “I don’t know. I worry.”

 

“Dex,” Derek begins, not really sure if he’s touched or uncomfortable or both, but Dex is already flushing, and avoiding his eyes.

 

“I know that’s not fair,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. His grip is tight around the bottle, dangling between his knees; Derek can see how pale his knuckles are. He must notice, because he relaxes his hands slightly, then his shoulders, takes a breath that looks intentional in its slowness. “To you, I mean. I shouldn’t get all up in your space and shit just because--”

 

Derek takes pity. “Dude,” he says, and Dex stops talking, face red, but looking almost grateful for the interruption. “It’s fine. Seriously.”

 

Dex nods. He rubs a hand through his hair,  and the afternoon sunlight glints off the short red strands bristling up between his fingers, turns them orange-gold. “I, uh.” He huffs out a short laugh. “I know I do this. I’m not good at being--at being worried, so I just get angry. And I yell a bunch, and I don’t give people space or whatever, and…” He shrugs again. “People’ve broken up with me for it. So I’m trying to be better. But I do. Worry.”

 

It’s more than Dex has ever told him about himself, and Derek swallows, his heart doing something clenching and strange in his chest. He tries not to think about the fact that Dex just told him something about himself and said _people have broken up with me for this_ , like that’s something that Derek’s in a position to do. He takes a careful breath.

 

“I don’t mind you worrying about me,” he says. That feels like too much, a step too far, and he clears his throat, backtracks. “Like. I’m shit at worrying about myself, so.” He nudges Dex’s shoulder. Casual. _Bros_. “Someone should.”

 

Dex snorts. “Yeah.”

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Derek finishes his beer, and starts to reach for another one, then hesitates. Dex huffs. “I’m not gonna judge you,” he says, though his voice says otherwise.

 

Derek winces, but whatever, he’s already three in, and he’s feeling a little better, so. “Last one,” he says. “Promise.” He opens it with the bottle opener on his keys, drops the cap into the cardboard sleeve of the package, and takes a sip. “I meant it, though,” he says. “It’s really not that bad a day.”

 

“So you’re three beers in and cracking a fourth at--” Dex glances at his watch. “--Three-thirty on a Wednesday just for shits?”

 

Derek nearly chokes on his next sip. Dex can be _savage_ when he wants to be. “Jesus, Poindexter, fuckin’ at me next time, huh?”

 

Dex makes a face. “I don’t even know what you just said.”

 

Valiantly resisting the urge to stick his tongue out--one of them has to be the bigger person, right?--Derek settles for briefly scrunching up his face before taking a sip of his beer and leaning back on his elbows, letting his legs sprawl. “I get fuzzy sometimes,” he says. “Like, my focus is all fucked, and I can’t concentrate. And it’s just.” He shrugs. “It’s not the worst thing? But it’s frustrating as fuck.”

 

“Huh.” Dex looks thoughtful. “That seems more like Chowder’s shit than yours? I mean.” He flushes. “Sorry. I know that’s not how I should’ve put that, I--”

 

“It’s fine.” Derek sips his beer. “There’s a lot of overlap,” he says after a moment of sifting through his thoughts. “Of people with depression and ADHD, I mean. And they can exacerbate each other, make the symptoms worse. I don’t know if I’ve got it, I’ve never been tested. It doesn’t help that some meds for depression can make you foggy as fuck sometimes, and I’ve been on different cocktails since I was a kid.”

 

He shrugs again, crossing his legs at the ankles. All casual, right? Easy. “So who knows, basically. Could be the depression, could be the meds, could be some other shit I’ve never gotten diagnosed, or could just be my brain being shitty at focusing sometimes.”

 

Dex looks at him over the rim of his bottle, his eyes considering. “I’m not a shrink, but it kind of sounds like you’re avoiding the problem,” he says. He leans over and taps Derek’s bottle. “Or at least drinking it.”

 

Derek tries to give him his usual chill smile, but it feels brittle on his face. It aches a little, in his chest, that he can’t play shit off with Dex like he used to.

 

He wonders when he stopped being able to keep his walls up. It scares the shit out of him that he isn’t sure.

 

Slowly, trying to loosen the the sudden tightness in his chest, he takes a breath. “Sometimes it’s just fogginess,” he says. “Like, reading the same passage or something over and over, and not being able to focus. But other times, it’s like...It’s like my thoughts are so thick and sluggish that I can’t push through them. Like I'm being pulled underwater.”

 

His lips feel dry and he licks them, swallowing. Fuck it, he’s already in this deep. “I used to think about drowning, sometimes,” he admits. “Just to know if I was making an accurate comparison, y’know?”

 

Dex draws in a sharp breath next to him. “Nursey,” he says.

 

Derek can hear the ache in his voice, and that’s what lets him paste the smile on his face, nudge Dex with one shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “C’mon, drowning’s one of those ways to go where you look normal when they drag you out of the water, right? So hey, everyone always says I’m too pretty for my own good, might as well die pretty, right?”

 

“Jesus _fuck_ , Derek,” Dex huffs. He shifts closer to Derek and loops a arm around his neck, tugging him into a rough half-hug until Derek’s face is pushed into his shoulder. He smells like Old Spice body wash and deodorant and a bit like sweat. “How about you _live_ pretty, okay? Can you do that for me?”

 

His voice is rough and a little thick, and Derek can feel his bicep trembling slightly where it’s pressed against his neck, holding Derek firm.

 

Derek swallows. “I,” he says, because he doesn’t know what to _say_ to that. He’s learned his lesson about making promises about shit like this. He goes another direction instead. “You really think I’m pretty, Poindexter?”

 

Dex snorts out a laugh, and Derek tries not to think that it sounds a little wet. “Unfortunately,” he says. Something firm that Derek is wildly afraid might be a kiss presses to the top of his head and then Dex lets him go, and Derek sits up, looking at him. Dex’s face is flushed red to the roots of his hair. “Gimme your reading,” he says.

 

Derek blinks. “What?”

 

“Whatever was giving you shit,” Dex says. He takes a sip of his beer, and his blush fades slightly. “I’ll read it out loud to you. My mom did that when I got a concussion in high school and everything was fucking swimming.”

 

“I…” Derek stares at him, but Dex just holds out an expectant hand, so he shrugs. “Yeah, okay.” He picks up the packet and passes it to Dex, then drains the rest of his beer and shifts around on the porch until he can lie back and drop his head into Dex’s lap. He looks up. “This cool?”

 

Dex has gone red again, but he nods. “It’s--yeah. It’s fine. You don’t need to take notes?”

 

Derek closes his eyes. “I wanna listen to it a few times first, if it’s okay.”

 

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah, okay.” Dex clears his throat, shifts his legs slightly under Derek’s head and shoulders. Derek doesn’t open his eyes. “Page six? The one you were already on?” Derek hums his agreement, and Dex puts a hand on his chest, right over his heart, like he wants to reassure himself of Derek’s heartbeat. His hand is heavy, warm enough that Derek can feel the heat of his palm through his shirt, and he thinks, a little idly, that maybe he can even feel the steady drum of his pulse.

 

“Okay,” Dex murmurs, and he begins to read, in a low, steady voice.

 

“The speech of birds, as in birdsong, but with exceptions…”

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* writing this slow burn is killing me i just want them to smash their faces together i promise this hurts me as much as it hurts you
> 
> The poem Derek is trying to read is "Some Definitions for Song" by Kei Miller, which is lovely and you can read it [here](http://caribbeanreviewofbooks.com/crb-archive/21-may-2010/two-poems/). And like. It's totally buddies to lay your head in your bro's lap while he presses his hand against your chest to feel your heartbeat and reads you poetry and you pretend you can't feel his pulse through your shirt, right? 
> 
> Right. Like. It's so buddies.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Wanna chat me up on tumblr about how in-denial these two dumb boys are and how I should ditch my outline and just make them kiss each other's faces? COOL, I LOVE THAT! hit me up, y'all: @geniusorinsanity


	6. does the puzzle come together piece by piece and row by row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh—and I talked to your Aunt Katie today,” Will’s mom says, as they’re wrapping up their usual Tuesday night conversation while Will walks home from his Computer Programming lab session. 
> 
> “Yeah?” Will nods to a girl from his calculus class who passes him with a group of what he guesses are sorority sisters; they’re all tall, blonde, and vaguely identical. “How’s she doing?”
> 
> “She’s alright, I suppose.” Will’s mom sounds a little distracted. He figures she’s in the kitchen. “It’s always a hard time of year for her, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Break out the tissues for this one; it's a bit of an emotional roller coaster. _Everyone is fine_ , but it's emotional. 
> 
> This chapter contains discussion of the past death of a family member by suicide, as well as the mention of Nursey's past suicide attempts. For more detailed content warnings (with some spoilers), see the end notes.

 

 

Do the pieces come together, piece by piece, and row by row?

I don’t know, I don’t know, where the fucking pieces go—

 

(“You Don’t Know (Reprise)”, _Next to Normal_ )

 

“Oh—and I talked to your Aunt Katie today,” Will’s mom says, as they’re wrapping up their usual Tuesday night conversation while Will walks home from his Computer Programming lab session. He calls home Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays; clockwork—more often, sometimes, because sue him, he misses his family; but these ones, he knows his mom looks forward to.

 

“Yeah?” Will nods to a girl from his calculus class who passes him with a group of what he guesses are sorority sisters; they’re all tall, blonde, and vaguely identical. “How’s she doing?”

 

“She’s alright, I suppose.” Will’s mom sounds a little distracted. He figures she’s in the kitchen. “It’s always a hard time of year for her, you know.”

 

Will frowns. “What? What do you—”

 

And then it hits him, hard enough to take his breath away and make him stop walking for a moment, and he puts a hand against the nearest bench to settle himself. “Never mind,” he says. “Never mind, I—I remember. Sorry, Ma, I just—Sorry. Sorry.”

 

She makes a soft, gentle sound in his ear, the verbal equivalent of her fingers running through his hair, her hand pressed to his cheek. His mom is the most tactile person he knows, the strangest contrast to his dad, who sometimes seems like every gruff, over-masculine Mainer stereotype rolled into one tall, wind-calloused redhead. “It’s okay, baby,” she says. “You were so little, when it happened.”

 

“Yeah, but I still…” Will swallows, and rubs at his suddenly-stinging eyes. “Is, uh—Is the family doing anything, this year? Should I try to get home?”

 

“No, honey, but it’s sweet of you to ask. We’ll go to the the gravesite with Aunt Katie, maybe go to Wednesday Mass—it depends on who’s leading, Father Peter or Father Andrew, you know why. We might do a family dinner, but I think it’ll be small, this year.” She pauses. “Are you okay, honey? You sound…You sound upset.”

 

Will takes a breath, swallows around the lump in his throat that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago, and takes another. “Of course I’m upset,” he says. “He was my cousin, wasn’t he?”

 

“Of course he was, baby, I’m not saying that,” his mom says gently. “But this is the first time I’ve heard you sound like this about it since you were little.”

 

“I’m just—”

 

What’s he supposed to tell her? He wonders. He can tell her that he misses Jamie, of course he does, always has and always will; that Jamie was his Cool Older Cousin and that he was there every day of Will’s life until suddenly he wasn’t. He can tell her that part of him has always known that Jamie is why they suddenly never had guns in the house anymore, even though Will’s dad still hunted with his uncles every season, why Will’s mom still made a point to make it clear to Will and Danny that she was always there to listen to them, no matter what, no matter _what_.

 

But he can’t tell her— _can’t_ —that thinking about Jamie feels like a raw wound this year, knowing what he knows now about Derek—about _Nursey_ , he tells himself firmly, about _Nursey_ , because if he starts thinking about Nursey as Derek than he’s going to start crossing more lines in his head than he’s already crossed. He can’t tell her that—that—

 

“I guess it’s just hard being away from the family for it,” he says. It’s weak, and he knows he waited too long to say something, and his mom, being his mom, probably sees through it in an in an instant.

 

She’s quiet on the other line for a moment. “I can understand that,” she says, finally, after a long, long moment. Something loosens in his chest—it’s a reprieve, he knows, not an escape; she loves him too fiercely to let him avoid a conversation like this. But he’ll take it, for now. “Billy, sweetheart, you know that if you need to come home, you can tell us, right? We can come get you for a weekend, or send you a bus ticket.”

 

“Money’s tight, Ma.”

 

His mother makes a _tsk_ -ing noise. “It’s not that tight,” she says. “There’s always room in the budget for family expenses, and believe it or not, we’re actually saving a smidge on groceries without you two and your brother in the house doing your best impersonations of vacuum cleaners, so we’ve got a bit of wiggle room.” Her voice softens. “My worrying boy, always so strong. A forty-dollar Greyhound or a tank of gas won’t put your parents on the street, baby, okay?”

 

Will closes his eyes, acutely aware that he’s standing on the sidewalk halfway to his dorm, red-faced and trying not to cry. “Okay, Mom.”

 

“Okay. You go home, now, and go do your homework. And have a proper dinner, okay? The way you talk, it sounds like you live off pie.”

 

He laughs—a little wetly, but it’s honest. “Ma, I’m on a diet plan for hockey, you know that.”

 

“That’s not what it sounds like to me. Don’t you let that Bitty’s pies replace your mom’s blueberry muffins in your heart, got it, young man?”

 

Will sniffs and grins and nods, even though he knows she can’t see. “Okay, Ma. I gotta go.”

 

“Okay, baby. I love you.”

 

“Love you, too.” Will hangs up the phone and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a few slow, deep breaths to try and even out his heart rate. His hands feel like they’re shaking slightly, and he puts his phone in his pocket so that he can clench and unclench his fists, and then shake them out, the way he does before a game or a kegster to get rid of the excess nerves.

 

That’s what he needs right now, he thinks, a little wryly. A game. A workout, or a run, or a party—he doesn’t dance much, really, but he could try to hook up, or at least play a game of pong, or just try to absorb the mood of the music and have a few shots and…

 

Ah, fuck. Maybe he should just take a leaf out of Nursey’s book. He slips his phone out of his pocket again as he heads towards home. **Hey** , he texts Ransom. **You doing a supply run tonite?**

 

It only takes a few seconds for Ransom to text back. **Haha literally in the car with Holtzy now. You need something?**

 

**Bottle of Jameson? Small one’s fine. I’ll pay you back**

 

**Sure thing. Swing by your dorm on our way back to the Haus.**

 

He heads back to his room, changes his shirt and kicks off his shoes. Sending up a silent apology to his mom, he microwaves a Hot Pocket instead of going to the dining hall for a real dinner—he’s hungry and tired, but he’s in introvert mode, now, doesn’t want to go deal with people. He burns his mouth on the cheese and gets sauce on the pages of his engineering book, but he doesn’t have to talk to anybody, so that’s something.

 

Around eight, there’s a tap on his door. He pulls his earbuds out. “Yeah?”

 

“Delivery,” Ransom calls, and Will gets to his feet.

 

Ransom’s leaning against the doorframe when he opens the door, a brown paper bag in his hand. He waggles the bag, and his eyebrows, at Will. “Jameson Blended Irish Whiskey, as requested,” he says.

 

Will reaches out and takes the bag. “Thanks, bro.”

 

“No prob.” Will starts to go for his wallet, but Ransom holds up a hand. “Nah, don’t sweat it. You fixed the dishwasher _and_ the oven last week, I figure we owe you.” He frowns, then. “You okay, man? This isn’t your kind of request. Usually when you text me you’re asking for homework help, y’know?”

 

“I’m fine,” Will says. The paper of the bag crinkles under his fingers. “It’s just, uh. It’s a family thing. Long-distance solidarity.”

 

Ransom hums. “Alright, bro.” He holds up a fist, and Will bumps it. “Make good choices, though, eh? Six-thirty practice tomorrow.”

 

Will snorts. “Yeah. Hard to forget that alarm, man.”

 

Ransom winks at him, waves, and heads off down the hall. Will closes the door behind him, sits back down, and opens the bottle.

 

Irish or not, he’s only had Jameson a few times, and the taste makes him wince at first—it’s strong and burns its way down his throat, hotter and more abrupt than the beer or sickly-sweet tub juice blends at Haus parties. He takes another sip, and then another, trying to get used to the taste and texture, and thinks that maybe he can find notes in it—the bottle talks about _woody and nutty tones_ , but he doesn’t get that. There’s something citrusy, maybe? And it feels smoother than beer as he gets used to it, less sticky than tub juice.

 

Will moves from his desk chair down to the floor and tilts his head back against the bed, closing his eyes. He’s drinking straight from the bottle; his mom would be fucking ashamed of him. Oh, well. She’s not here.

 

He takes another drink, and thinks about Jamie.

 

Will was ten when Jamie died. He’d killed himself in the middle of the night. Will couldn't remember what day of the week, by it must have been a weeknight, because Will had found out he was dead when he’d come downstairs for school and found his mother standing by the phone, her face pale and tear-streaked and stricken, his father standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, his hands gripping her arms hard to hold her up. She must have had bruises, Will thinks, remembering, though he had been too young to think of such of a thing at the time.

 

“Pour one out,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t, just swirls the bottle slightly, and then takes another sip.

 

His phone buzzes. He picks it up. It’s a text from Nursey, just another dumb meme in the chain they’ve been sending back and forth. And then, a moment later, another text: **what’re u up to tonite? u around?**

 

Will makes a face out at his phone. He _is_ around tonight. Technically. He’s home. But Derek— _Nursey_ , he reminds himself, _Nursey_ —makes him _feel_ things, and he’s already feeling too much tonight.

 

But if anyone will understand...Will runs a thumb along the smooth green neck of the bottle.

 

He’s never been able to talk about this. And Nursey…

 

Nursey, if nothing else, Nursey knows the words, the ones that have always dried up in his throat.

 

Will swallows, and texts back: **in my room like a loser. Come hang?**

 

**haha you bet bro. u know i never miss a party ;)**

 

Nursey comes through his door fifteen minutes later without bothering to knock, wearing sweatpants and a flannel that Will thinks might...might actually be his? He squints at the pattern for a few seconds while Nursey shuts the door behind him and takes off his snapback. “Sup, Poindexter,” he says, kicking off his sneakers and tossing his hat onto Will’s desk. “We drinking tonight?”

 

“Is that my flannel?” Will asks.

 

Nursey looks briefly guilty. “Uh,” he says. “No?”

 

“Doesn’t _sound_ like no,” Will grumbles, but he scoots over a little so Nursey can sit next to him. It’s _definitely_ his flannel; he recognizes the loose thread on the seam along the shoulders, and it’s a little tighter on Nursey than Nursey normally wears his clothes. Nursey looks a little shifty about it, though, so Will decides to just let it go. He offers him the bottle. “Here.”

 

“Aw,” Nursey says. “Whiskey’s my favorite color, Poindexter, thanks.”

 

Will makes a face. “Don’t say shit like that.”

 

Nursey shrugs a shoulder, a _whatever_ motion, and takes a sip from the bottle without wiping the neck first. He’s smoother about it than Will is, and Will’s stomach flips a little at the idea of Nursey having too much practice drinking straight whiskey, but then he gets a little distracted, watching Nursey’s throat work as he swallows. Nursey lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth, cocks a brow at Will. “So,” he says. “What’re we drinking about?”

 

He hands the bottle back. Will takes it, but doesn’t drink, just holds it loosely between his hands. He can feel the weight of Nursey’s shoulder against his, warm. “My cousin died,” he says.

 

Nursey draws in a sharp breath. “Shit, Dex,” he says. “I’m so sorry, man.”

 

And he _sounds_ so sorry, too, his voice heartfelt and sincere, and Will almost forgets for a moment to correct him. “No, uh, I meant—” He swallows. “Not, like. Recently. It was awhile ago? When I was a kid. It’s just, the anniversary is next week, and this is the first time I’m not home for it, with my family. And I…”

 

“Hey, dude.” Nursey shifts next to him, and then, gently, slings an arm around his shoulders. Will swallows again, and it’s harder now, the lump in his throat thicker and tougher. “Do you wanna tell me? Or just...Just sit?”

 

“I…” Will tightens his grip on the neck of the bottle. “I, uh.” He wants to tell him, he does, but he’s not sure if— He reaches up and rubs his eyes, then reaches up and touches Nursey’s hand where it rests on his shoulder. “Can I…”

 

He trails off, not sure how to finish the question, but Nursey says, “Yeah, of course,” his voice soft, and something loosens in Will’s chest. Will exhales and half-shifts, resting his head against Nursey’s shoulder. He closes his eyes.

 

“I’ve got a million cousins,” he says. “Like, I have a ton of aunts and uncles, so I have a _ton_ of cousins, but Jamie—Jamie was like, my _cool_ older cousin. He was into punk rock and all this cool music, and he used to play me all of his records. Like, real records, LPs and stuff, not CDs and stuff.” Nursey hums gently. His fingertips brush a gentle circle on Will’s upper arm. It’s soothing.

 

“He died when I was ten.” His voice comes out scratchy, now. He’s not crying, but it’s getting harder not to. “He was the guy I was so sure I wanted to grow up to be, and then he was—he was just gone. I went to bed and I had my cousin and then I woke up and I didn’t.”

 

Nursey squeezes his shoulder. “Dex,” he says. And then, softly, “How did he—I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but—”

 

Will brings the whiskey to his lips again, takes another sip. He’s getting more and used to the flavor and burn. “I wanna tell you,” he says. “But I don’t wanna—I don’t want you to...to get hurt.” He drinks again, longer this time.

 

“Dex,” Nursey says, reaching over and gently taking the bottle from him. Will lets him, reluctantly looking at him, and finds Nursey’s eyes calm—worried, but calm. “You can tell me. I can handle it.”

 

“He killed himself,” Will whispers. It comes out wet, and Nursey tightens his arm around him. “He—He was fifteen, and—”

 

His voice cracks.

 

“Okay,” Nursey says. “Okay, c’mere.” He puts the whiskey on the floor and pulls Will into a hug and Will just _goes_ , lets Nursey tug him in.

 

It’s a little awkward, sort of like the half-embrace Will had pulled Nursey into on the porch last week, but this is closer, gentler. Nursey’s fingers slip into his hair, soothing, and Will’s still not messy-crying—he _doesn’t_ cry, really, he has to be _really_ fucked up to really, properly cry—but there are tears in his eyes, hot and damp around his lashes, and his lips are wobbling, and his breath comes in deep shudders, stuffy and wet in his nose.

 

All the same, he’s glad to be burying his face in Nursey’s shoulder.

 

When he can take in a few shaking breaths without feeling like he might actually break down, he lifts his head. “Sorry,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

 

Nursey shakes his head. “No, it’s okay.” His eyes are shining slightly, and alarm flickers under Will’s chest.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Nursey’s lips twitch. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah.” Will wipes his face, then motions for the bottle. “Gimme that, will you?” Nursey hands it to him, and Will takes a long sip. It burns more than usual, probably thanks to the rawness of his throat from all the snot he’s swallowed.

 

“They, um.” Will rubs his eyes. “He didn’t tell us—the little cousins, I mean—what happened, but—things changed, at home. We used to have, uh, guns in the house?” Nursey flinches, and Will says quickly, “I mean, not—like, hunting rifles, pistols, shit like that. My dad and my uncles, they hunt on-season. And after Jamie, mom made him get rid of all of them— _all_ of them. My dad took them to the range instead, even though they were all in locked safes.”

 

“Jamie’s dad had guns,” Nursey says, realization dawning in his voice. He’s quiet for a few seconds, and then murmurs, “Jesus.”

 

Will huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I didn't put the pieces together until I was older, but...yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t tell you this, you have so much of your own shit, I—”

 

“It’s okay,” Nursey says. And then, softly, “ _I’m_ okay.”

 

Will nods miserably. He offers the bottle to Nursey and Nursey takes it, drinks, then looks thoughtful for a moment before he pauses.

 

“Is, uh.” Nursey licks his bottom lip. “Is he why you’ve been—Is this why it hit you so hard? Learning about me?”

 

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Will closes his eyes. “I don’t know. I wanna say no, that it would be enough that you were just my teammate, my—my friend. But I don’t know.”

 

Nursey nods slowly. He takes another drink, a longer one.

 

“Hey,” Will says. He reaches up and puts his hand over Nursey’s on the bottle, forces him to lower it. “Just—easy, okay?”

 

Nursey looks like he wants to keep drinking, but he nods again. He curls his hands into loose fists, and then slowly releases his fingers, exhaling as he does so, then repeats the motion, his breaths so even that Will thinks he must be counting them.

 

Worry flickers in Will’s chest. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

 

“Yeah.” Nursey shifts enough to press his shoulder tight against Will’s, warm and solid. Will presses back. “I’m okay. I’m glad you felt like you could tell me, Will. And I’m...I’m really sorry, that you lost him.”

 

It’s the first time that Will thinks he’s ever heard Nursey use his first name. Some emotion he can’t place flutters inside him, somewhere between his stomach and his heart, and it makes him nervous to think about what it might be.

 

They sit side by side for a few minutes, not speaking, arms pressed together. Will can feel the warmth of the alcohol in his stomach, in his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s drunk, but he’s a little lightheaded, from the tears and the whiskey both.

 

There’s a question, burning at the back of his mind, that he isn’t sure how to ask. It’s been there for a long time, since that first night, when Nursey almost—almost. It grew, when Nursey told him about the peanut butter and his closet, has been growing since.

 

Will swallows. “Nursey.” Nursey hums. “I…” He closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I wanna ask you something, but I…”

 

Nursey makes a slight movement next to him, and then says. “You can ask me anything,” he says quietly. There’s something in his voice that Will can’t place. “But I’ll answer you. So just. Know that.”

 

It’s trust, Will realizes. That’s what he can hear in Nursey’s voice. He swallows. “How,” he starts. The question catches in his throat, and he has to begin again. “How many times?”

 

Nursey is silent for a moment. Will can hear his own heart beating in his ears.

 

“Three,” Nursey says. “Three times.”

 

Three attempts. They’re eighteen. Will feels nauseous.

 

“Don’t…” Nursey’s voice trembles slightly. “Please don’t ask me to tell you more than that, okay?”

 

“I won’t.” Something in Nursey’s tone makes Will open his eyes and look at him. Nursey’s eyes are trained on the floor, and they’re bright, glistening. The tears in his eyes make the green of his irises shine, and Will feels strange, and then guilty, for finding an odd sort of loveliness in it. “Nursey—” He stops, and then reaches out, takes Nursey’s hand. “Derek?”

 

Nursey doesn’t look at him, but he turns his hand in Will’s, so that instead of Will’s palm and fingers curled over the back of Nursey’s hand, their fingers are laced together. Nursey’s fingers are cold, especially his fingertips, and without thinking, Will says, “Your hand’s cold.”

 

“Yeah. Shit circulation. Runs in the family, among other things.” Nursey wipes his eyes with his other hand, exhales hard. “Speaking of, you…” He looks at the bottle of Jameson, still held loosely in his other hand, and then thrusts it toward Will. “You should take this away from me.”

 

Will takes it. “Yeah?” he says, cautiously.

 

Nursey nods, his lips pressed together. “My granddad—” He breaks off, and shakes his head. “Family fucks with all of us, I guess,” he says.

 

Will snorts. “That’s the fucking truth.” He looks at the bottle, then puts it aside. They’ve both had enough.

 

Nursey tilts his head back against Will’s bed, just breathing. Then he sits up again. “Can I show you something?”

 

Confused, Will nods an ascent, and Nursey shifts to pull his phone out of his back pocket. He unlocks it and swipes through to open an app that Will doesn’t recognize.

 

It looks like a lot of text, but Will sees different headings—Warning Signs, Coping Skills, Distractions, Contacts. Nursey clicks, “Contacts,” and under “Farah,” “Ammi,” “Mami,” and “C” is Will’s own phone number, labeled “Dex.”

 

Nursey angles the screen toward him, even though Will could already see it. “It’s a safety plan app,” he says. “I, um. My therapist had me download it, for times when—you know. And the contacts are supposed to be people who I feel like I can talk to, that I...that I feel safe with. And I wanted you to know that you’re...You’re one of them.”

 

“I…” Will stares at him. There’s something heavy about that, not—not a weight, not like a burden, but like he’s been given something precious that he can hold or throw away and it’s his choice of what to do with it. “Thank you.”

 

“I mean.” Nursey shrugs one shoulder, a little awkwardly. “I should thank you, you know?”

 

They sit in silence for a moment. Nursey breaks it, his voice soft, uncertain. “Do you think...” He chews his bottom lip. “Did I fuck up my sister, you think? Like losing your cousin fucked you up?”

 

Startled, Will stares at him. “What?”

 

Nursey drops his gaze down to the floor. “Farah was sixteen, the first time I—the first time I tried. And she was so. She was _so_ fucking scared, Will, I—I still remember her face. And she had nightmares for weeks, even after she went back to school. She used to call every night and talk to me before bed just to make sure I was still—” He stops and takes a shaking breath. “She’s my best friend, she’s the most important person in my whole fucking life and I love her more than anything, and I…”

 

“Derek,” Will says, tightening his grip on Nursey’s hand until Nursey looks at him properly. He shifts to sit in front of him, moving his other hand to Nursey’s shoulder. “You’re still here,” he says softly. “You’re here, Derek. That’s what matters.”

 

He swallows hard, closing his eyes and lowering his forehead to rest it against Nursey’s. He can feel Nursey’s curls, soft against his skin. “That’s what would matter to me,” he whispers.

 

Nursey doesn’t respond, but his free hand comes up and fists into the back of Will’s t-shirt. It’s still not a hug, really, more of an awkward half-huddle, but Nursey’s grip is tight, and Will almost wants to make it a hug—make it more than that, really, wants to pull Nursey so close he can’t be hurt. “I’m so glad you’re here, Derek,” he says. His voice comes out watery, and Nursey pulls in a shuddering breath. “I’m so—I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”

 

“I—” They’re close enough that he can hear the catch in Nursey’s breathing, the tremor in his voice. He’s quiet. He’s so, so quiet. “I’m not. Not always.”

 

The words sound punched out of him, and Will knows, but isn’t sure how he knows, that this isn’t something Nursey says out loud, not really. That feeling of being _trusted_ sweeps over him again, dizzying. “It’s okay,” he says. He leans back enough so that he can look Nursey in the eyes, see that bright, shining green. The word _beautiful_ flies through his mind unbidden, and he doesn’t even find himself wanting to chase it away. “Derek. It’s—it’s enough that you’re here. It’s enough. _You’re_ enough.”

 

Nursey’s closes his eyes for a moment, a long moment, and Will watches his eyelashes tremble, damp, watches his lips part. When opens his eyes, and looks at Will, there’s something in his gaze that Will can’t put a word to, but he doesn’t think he needs to. Doesn’t think he wants to.

 

“Thank you,” Nursey whispers. “I—Thank you.”

 

They sit there, not quite embracing, gripping each other tight, not daring to let go, for a long, long time.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings (contains spoilers): significant reference to and discussion of a cousin of Dex's who completed suicide by firearm when Dex was ten and the cousin was fifteen; mention of Nursey's past suicide attempts and their impact on his family; a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to a family history of alcohol abuse
> 
> EVERYBODY IS OKAY AND EVERYBODY IS IN LOVE.
> 
> Okay, now that that's out of the way:
> 
> Safety plan apps are great, y'all! The one I use, and the one vaguely refrenced in this fic, is Safety Plan by [Mood Tools](http://www.moodtools.org/). Other great ones are [My3](http://my3app.org/) and [Beyond Blue](https://www.beyondblue.org.au/get-support/beyondnow-suicide-safety-planning). All of these are free and available for iPhone and Android. If suicidality or self-harm is something you struggle with, a safety plan app might be a great thing for you--any of these will let you design a custom plan where you can track your triggers, some coping skills, distractions, and safe people or hotlines to contact in an emergency. 
> 
> Also, just because this was a rough chapter, I'm re-posting the hotlines from the earlier chapters. Stay safe, my loves!  
> [US-Based](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com/post/24784688810/dont-ever-hesitate-reblog-this-tumblr-rule)  
> [International](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html)  
> [Text-Based](http://www.crisischat.org/)
> 
> We're coming up on the end now! One more chapter to go!! 
> 
> Wanna have a million feelings with me, yell at me, or just flail around about shit? I'm on tumblr, hit me up: @geniusorinsanity


	7. shake me from these dreams (let there be light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment Derek wakes up, he knows it’s not a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST ONE! I'll save my flailing for the end notes.
> 
> Content warnings for a depressive episode, including intrusive thoughts and negative self-talk, but overall this one is actually fairly mild. 
> 
> You'll probably still want your tissues though. Y'know. For the feels.

 

Sun and moon a million beams

Let it shake me shake me from these dreams

And wake me to what's real

Let us begin to heal

Let there be light

 

(“Prelude,” _Next to Normal_ )

 

 

The moment Derek wakes up, he knows it’s not a good day.

 

He can feel it in the weight of his hand as he reaches for his phone to turn off his alarm, in the fog that he has to blink away when he opens his eyes, the way he has to drag himself up to sitting, his entire body protesting the motion.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, feeling bone-tired, even though he knows he’s gotten a full night’s sleep. He rubs his eyes, and sends a longing look at his phone, wondering about the possibilities of calling out of practice.

 

No. No, fuck, he _can’t_ , they’re playing Yale this weekend, and Jack and Coach Hall introduced a shitton of new plays this week that he and Dex are still trying to get down. Derek rolls onto his back and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

 

Okay. Okay.

 

Up.

 

Drawing in a breath big enough to make his lungs ache, he hauls himself out of bed. Moving on autopilot, he pulls on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, sneakers; digs a protein bar out of a box on his desk. He locks his door and tugs his hood up over his hair, unwrapping his protein bar as he starts down the path towards Faber. The bar tastes like dust in his mouth, but it’s calories, it’s protein, it’s carbs. It’ll get him through practice.

 

The locker room is buzzing when he gets there, loud and alive with activity, even though it’s balls-early and everyone’s still half-asleep. Derek drops into his stall with all the grace off a stack of bricks and just rests there for a moment, letting his hands dangle between his knees and his head hang heavy.

 

Someone taps his foot, none-too-gently. “Yo,” someone says. His sluggish brain connects the voice to a person, and then to a face; to warm, butterscotch-brown eyes. Dex. He drags his own open, heavy, and finds Dex frowning. “You look like shit,” Dex says.

 

Derek shrugs a shoulder. “Tired,” he says, which is easier than, _depression just swallowed me whole_. “Shitty night’s sleep.”

 

“I heard my name!” Shitty yells from across the room. Six different people tell him to shut the fuck up. There’s the sound of a half-hearted smack.

 

“Well, skate it off, buddy,” Dex says, firmly, but not unkindly, heedless of the scuffle that’s broken out near Shitty’s stall. “We’ve got plays to learn.”

 

Derek pastes a smile on. “Fuck yeah, bro,” he says.

 

Dex punches his shoulder, turning away to start buckling his pads on over his underarmor. Derek waits until he’s sure Dex has lost focus on him, and then lets the smile fall off his face. The effort of pulling it on had made the muscles in his cheeks hurt, and he rubs his jaw. The prickle of his stubble under his fingertips makes his skin crawl, like everything’s too sensitive, all his nerves exposed.

 

 _Well_ , he thinks, reaching into his bag for an underarmor shirt. _This is gonna go great._

 

Practice is a shitshow. Derek’s entire body feels slow and heavy and it comes out in his play--he misses passes that should connect, he fumbles the puck on easy shots, he’s a fucking _mess_.

 

The third time he takes a turn too fast trying to get the puck onto his tape, his skates sweep out from under him and he goes flying across the ice. His pads take most of the impact, but the air leaves his lungs hard and he slams his stick down on the ice in frustration. “ _Fuck_.”

 

A pair of skates comes up to him and stops so fast that a spray of ice shavings hits his skin, just under the visor of his helmet. Derek pries his eyes open, knows what he’ll see before he even looks up.

 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Dex snaps down at him, pulling his helmet off and glaring, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. “Did you forget how to fucking skate, Nurse?”

 

It’s the first time in weeks that Dex has lost his temper at him, and fuck, he should have known, should have _known_ all the kindness and sensitivity was too good to last. The sudden loss of it should make him ache, but he feels too dead for anything but exhausted irritation. He bristles, and then, because he’s too tired to do anything else, snaps.

 

“Fuck _you_ , Poindexter, I’m allowed to have a fucking off day, alright?”

 

Dex scowls. “Not this fucking week you’re not. We’ve got Yale on Friday, Dartmouth on Saturday, we’ve got to get our _shit_ together!”

 

Derek pushes himself up on his elbows. “I’m fucking _trying_ , okay! Where were you on that second pass, huh? Where the fuck were--”

 

“Poindexter! Nurse!”

 

Jack’s voice cuts through the argument before it can escalate to a real fight, and Derek’s relieved, a little, because part of him really doesn’t have enough energy for a full-out shouting match, but fuck, can he not catch a fucking _break_ today? He hauls himself the rest of the way to sitting as Jack skates up to them, his jaw set in a firm frown. “Is there a reason the two of you are bitching at each other on my ice instead of getting your plays together?”

 

“Nursey was--” Dex begins, but Jack shoots him a _look_ , and he huffs a sigh. “Yeah, alright. Fuck, sorry.” He sticks out a hand for Derek’s. “C’mere.”

 

Derek hesitates, anger and irritation still buzzing just under his skin, but he’s tired, he’s so fucking tired, and even that emotion is already starting to fade, leaving only a weary emptiness in its wake. He reaches up, his arm heavy, like it weighs a million pounds, and puts his hand in Dex’s. Dex hauls him up to his feet, holding onto him until he’s steady on his skates again, and gives him a faint, almost apologetic smile.

 

Jack watches them both with narrowed eyes. “You two good?”

 

“We’re fine,” Derek says, just as Dex says, “Yeah, sure.”

 

Jack looks at him for another moment, studying him, his face thoughtful, and then he says, “Nursey, you’re done for the day.”

 

Derek frowns. “What?”

 

Next to him, Dex looks just as startled. “What?”

 

Jack ignores Dex, focusing the full intensity of his gaze on Derek, and suddenly Derek thinks he might know what it feels like to be a puck. “You’re not looking too good,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on and you don’t need to tell me, but you’re fucking up on the ice and I’m not having you risk an injury. Go home, sleep off whatever this is, and come back tomorrow ready to skate right.”

 

“I--” Derek starts to protest, but Jack’s eyes go as hard as the ice they’re standing on, and Derek’s too fucking tired to argue. “Fine. Fuck this anyway.”

 

It’s petulant and he knows it, but he wants the last word. He skates off the ice, managing to not knock into anything or fall over, and all but flings his stick into the rack when he gets back into the locker room. It clatters and falls to the floor and for a moment he just stares at it, lying there. His eyes prickle, hot and wet, and his throat tightens.

 

 _Can’t even do this right_ , that mocking, cruel voice in the back of his mind tells him. _Can’t skate right, can’t stay in practice, can’t even put your shit away--it’s no wonder they don’t want you to stay, isn’t it?_

 

Fuck. _Fuck_ , he can’t do this right now. Derek takes a shuddering breath, counting back from ten and running through the thought exercises Salma taught him, picturing a box going up around that voice until he can’t hear it anymore, tucking it far away to deal with later, determined not to lose his shit in the locker room.

 

Moving as quickly as his body will let him, he stores his gear. He doesn’t bother with a shower, just pulls on the sweats he’d abandoned when he got to practice, shoving his feet back into his sneakers without putting on his socks--it’s fucking gross, and he knows it, but all he can think of is getting back to his room and going the _fuck_ back to sleep.

 

Sleep this off, Jack had said. Yeah. That’s what he needs. Nine or ten or twenty more hours of sleep.

 

His stomach’s growling a little when he reaches his room, and he realizes that not finishing practice meant no team breakfast, which meant not replacing any of the calories he burned during the forty-five minutes he skated. Derek runs a hand over his face and sits down on his bed heavily, already feeling the shakiness set into his hands. He’s pretty sure there’s food in the kitchenette in his common room--some yogurt or cup noodles or cereal or something, but he just doesn’t have the energy.

 

The sweat from practice has dried tacky and unpleasant on his skin, and he pulls his clothes off, pulling his blankets back and crawling back into them. His head hits the pillow and it’s like coming home, a _thank fucking god,_ and he closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh as a fraction of the weight leaves his muscles.

 

Not done yet, though, he knows. Derek cracks his eyes back open and emails his professors--he only has two classes today and he’s got strong grades in both of them, so he thinks he’s okay emailing out sick. He hits _send_ , chews his bottom lip and then texts Chowder: **can you come by my place after your calc class? shit day. Could use a friend.**

 

He knows it’ll be a little while before C texts back; practice has another forty-five minutes. And Chowder’s calculus class doesn’t even get out til eleven. He’s got time to sleep, which is good. Sleep is what he wants.

 

What he really wants, he can admit to himself, wrapping his blankets around himself like a cocoon, is Dex. Dex’s whiskey-warm eyes and sharp wit and unforgiving honesty and surprisingly gentle arms. Derek takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. He’s pretty sure Dex would come, if he asked, even though Derek was a shitshow on the ice and they bitched each other out.

 

But he feels raw right now, and he doesn’t want...He doesn’t want to reach out, and risk the no. So Chowder it is. Not that C’s a substitute--Chowder’s safe, and warm, and knows how to keep him grounded and out of his head if he needs it. So that’s--that’ll be okay.

 

That’ll be good.  
  
Before he closes his eyes, Derek opens the notepad app on his phone. He should write this in his journal, do it properly, but he’s too tired for that right now. He types the date, and then just writes, _bad day - depression 8/10, foggy/heavy/tired. Couldn’t finish practice, Jack sent me home._ He pauses, then adds, _no SI_ , because he knows Salma will ask him.

 

He sets an alarm to remind him to update the note at noon and puts his phone on his desk, and he closes his eyes.

 

When he opens them again, it’s because his phone’s ringing. Derek groans, fumbling on the desk for it, and picks up the call without looking, pushing it against his ear. “’lo?” he mumbles.

 

“Nursey? Finally! I called you like twice, I was getting worried!”

 

Chowder. Derek cracks his eyes open, and then immediately shuts them against the glare of the sunlight coming in through his blinds. “Fuck,” he says, and then, “No, I mean--Sorry, dude, I crashed. Didn’t hear you call.”

 

“Oh, okay. I just got out of class--I was gonna come by your room, if you still want me to.” Chowder sounds hesitant. “Do you still want me to?”

 

Derek takes stock of his mood to see if the sleep has helped enough that he feels any better, but no--he feels sluggish and grey and heavy and on-edge, prickling. He shouldn’t be on his own right now. Not because he’ll _do_ anything, but he’ll be better if someone’s with him. “Yeah,” he says, hating himself a little for how small his voice sounds. “Please.”

 

“Okay,” Chowder says, easy and immediate, like Derek hasn’t just asked him to change whatever his plans were going to be to come spend the day hanging out with him in his Den Of Sadness. “I’ll be there in like fifteen minutes.”

 

“Alright. Thanks, man.” Derek hangs up and lets his arm drop to his side, staring up at his ceiling.

 

Fifteen minutes is enough time to shower and get dressed, probably. Or it would be, if he didn’t feel like he’d have to move through molasses to reach the bathroom. It would be so much easier to stay in bed, he thinks longingly, but…

 

Derek looks at his towel, hanging on the hook on the back of his door, and thinks about how much of a dick move it would be to make C snuggle with him when he smells like dried sweat and BO, and that’s enough to get him to haul his ass out of bed.

 

The shower doesn’t do much more than get him clean--when he doesn’t have a lot of time on days like this, he tends to feel more tired after a shower, not less--but at least he’s not gross anymore by the time Chowder texts him to let him know he’s outside Derek’s suite. Derek pulls on a clean pair of sweatpants and the first t-shirt that comes to his hand and pads down the hall to let him in. “Sorry,” he says, opening the door. “Just got out of the shower when you texted.”

 

“No worries,” Chowder assures him. He holds up a plastic bag. “I brought you some sustenance!”

 

Derek manages a smile. “Thanks, C, but I’m really not hungry.”

 

“Really?” Chowder raises his eyebrows, looking interested. “Did you eat breakfast?”

 

Derek suspects he’s being pulled into a trap. “Uh, no. Just a protein bar.”

 

“Before or after practice?”

 

“Before,” Derek says, which he knows, fucking _knows_ is the wrong answer.

 

Chowder smiles, goalie-sharp. “Welp,” he says. “Sounds to me like you need to eat! Weird that you’re not hungry, must be your brain’s confused.” He starts to sling a playful arm around Derek’s neck, the way he would at practice or in the Haus, but he stops himself, and Derek realizes he must have flinched. Chowder’s eyes soften. “Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry, Nursey, I thought it was okay if I just acted--should I not?”

 

Derek swallows. “No, you’re--you’re fine, I just. I get, touch can be a lot, if it’s sudden? If I’m not expecting it.” He smiles weakly. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. Of course it’s okay.” Chowder pauses. “ _Can_ I touch you?” Derek nods, and Chowder puts an arm around his shoulders. “Okay. Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

 

He’s gentle as he guides Derek back to his room and back into bed. Derek crawls back into his cocoon of blankets and watches Chowder take a single-serve yogurt, one of the ones that comes with a packet of granola on top, out of the bag. Chowder mixes the granola into the yogurt and hands it to him, along with a spoon and a firm, “Eat this,” and then digs his laptop out of his backpack, climbing onto the bed next to Derek. “What are we gonna watch?”

 

Derek blinks at him from where he’s mixing the yogurt to distribute the granola clumps. “What?”

 

“Well,” Chowder says, shifting closer until his shoulder presses against Derek’s, “you said last time you liked those _Mystery Science Theater_ things? But then they went off Netflix so me and Dex both downloaded a bunch of them, so I figured we could look through what we have on my computer and find something you like?”

 

There’s a lump in Derek’s throat that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago, and Derek feels his hand start to shake around the yogurt container and plastic spoon. And both Chowder _and_ Dex downloaded movies for him--just in case he wanted to watch them? “C,” he says. “I…”

 

His voice trails off, words dying in his throat. Chowder seems to get what he wanted to say, though, and just nudges him gently. “Hey,” he says. “Got your back, man.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, a little weakly. “Thanks, bro.”

 

Chowder grins. “Duh,” he says. “Now eat your yogurt, or you don’t get the Milky Way I got you.”

 

Derek makes a face. “Low blow, dude,” he says.

 

“Life’s rough,” Chowder says sagely.

 

They put on _Manos: Hands of Fate_ because it’s one of Derek’s favorites, and he eats his yogurt while Chowder stares in horror at the screen and says things like “holy shit” and “what the actual fuck” and “this is actually the worst thing I’ve ever seen, Nursey, oh my God.” Which is fair, there’s a reason this movie has a reputation for being the worst film ever made, but Derek loves it, especially with the commentary.

 

When he finishes the yogurt--it takes longer than might be reasonable, he’s really not hungry, and the texture feels weird on his tongue--Chowder takes the carton and tosses it into the trash, then produces a Milky Way out of seemingly nowhere.

 

“Are you rewarding me for eating food like a normal human being?” Derek deadpans, taking it.

 

“I am,” Chowder says. “Also, I’ll literally get you a pile more if you can explain why you like this movie.”

 

Derek laughs softly, unwrapping the bar. “You gotta feel it in your _soul_ , C.”

 

Chowder makes a face but turns the movie back on, nudging Derek’s shoulder gently as he does so. Derek takes a bite of the candy bar, lets the chocolate and caramel dance over his tongue.

 

His phone buzzes on the desk, and he glances over as Chowder reaches for it. “Oh, it’s your alarm,” he says. “Should I pause the movie?”

 

“No, it’s okay.” Derek folds the wrapper back over the candy bar--he really only wanted the one bite, honestly--and trades Chowder for his phone. He turns off the **Update Note** alarm and swipes open his notepad to open the note from earlier, tapping his thumb idly against the side of his case while he tries to figure out if he’s feeling any different.

 

He feels a little less shaky, maybe, from the food, but he still feels heavy, and sluggish. His thoughts still feel slow and ungainly, and he can’t quite get them to sort out properly. Rubbing a hand over his face, Derek types that into the note--the text equivalent of _eh, no fucking change_ , basically--and then, since he has his phone open anyway, flips through the rest of his notifications. He has a few emails, confirmations from his professors that he’s okay to miss class and a couple from classmates; three voicemails, one from Chowder, one from Coach Hall, and one from Jack. He ignores those.

 

There are a bunch of text message notifications, and he taps the message icon a little nervously. Four from Chowder, two from his sister, one from Bitty.

 

And, to his surprise, ten from Dex.

 

Glancing at Chowder, whose gaze is fixed in rapt horror at the movie, Derek opens Dex’s messages thread.

 

**Dex: hey**

**Dex: wanted to apologize for earlier**

**Dex: at practice i mean**

**Dex: i’m stressed as fuck about the game this weekend but that’s not an excuse**

**Dex: dude are you pissed at me?**

**Dex: hello?**

**Dex: shit nvm c just told me you’re having a rough day. Sorry**

**Dex: let me know if you need anything i guess?**

**Dex: seriously**

**Dex: i really am sorry. I hope you feel better**

 

Derek reads through the chain twice, and then sinks a little lower against his pillows, adjusting to get more comfortable. Next to him, Chowder shifts absently and slings an arm around his shoulders. “You good?” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Derek mumbles. “Thanks.” He waves his phone. “Trying to figure out what to say to Dex.”

  
“Huh.” Chowder nods. “He was with me when you texted. He, um. I think he felt like an asshole for how he acted at practice.”

 

Derek shrugs. “I was being a dick, too,” he says, tapping the side of his phone case absently with one forefinger. “So.”

 

“Not how it looked from where I was sitting.” Chowder pauses. “Crouching?” He makes a face, exaggerated enough that Derek laughs a little despite himself, and Chowder rocks gently into him. “Are you mad at him?”

 

“Nah. Thought he was mad at me for not having my shit together.” Derek drums his fingers against his phone and sighs. “I really _don’t_ have my shit together, C.”

 

Chowder regards him calmly for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t think you need to, all the time,” he says finally. “I mean. That’s why d-men come in pairs, right?”

 

Derek blinks at him slowly, trying to get those words to rearrange themselves and make sense, and then he parts his lips, uncertain. He's been trying so fucking hard to keep his... _thing_ for Dex from becoming obvious, but Chowder’s eyes have always been sharp. “C,” he says. “Are you. Um.”

 

He can feel his face warming, but Chowder just nudges him, a gentle pressure against his side. “I’m not saying anything,” he says. “Just that--You know. You guys fit.”

 

Derek chews his bottom lip. He looks down at his phone, at the string of messages, and then glances back up at Chowder. “You think?” he says carefully, trying not to put too much into his words, not to be to obvious about the double meaning.

 

Chowder smiles. “I think,” he says. He drops his head onto Derek’s. “You should let him say sorry,” he says. “And then you should try to stop worrying. You’ve probably got enough on your mind.”

 

“Or something,” Derek says, but something has loosened in his chest. Chowder _knows_ \--he doesn’t know how, or when he got it, but he knows, and Derek didn’t have to tell him, and... Derek closes his eyes and rests his head against Chowder’s shoulder. “You know you’re the best,” he mumbles. “Right, C?”

 

“Duh,” Chowder says. He rubs his hand over Derek’s arm. “I keep _saying_.”

 

Derek laughs a little. He thinks for a moment, and then types, **we were both out of line dude. It’s ok. But thank you.**

 

The typing bubble pops up immediately under his message, like Dex has been waiting by the phone, and who knows, maybe he has. **Yeah. I mean it man- i’m sorry.**

 

The next few messages come through in quick succession.

 

**Dex: are you feeling any better?**

**Dex: do you need anything or like**

**Dex: idk**

 

Derek feels his lips twitch up faintly. **No** , he types back. **I’m good. Thanks tho. Got C here, torturing him with manos hands of fate.**

 

**Dex: haha cruel, dude**

**Dex: ok. Let me know.**

**Dex: i’m here, if you need me**

 

Derek swallows, running his finger over the edge of his phone case. **Thank you** , he types, and hits _send_.

 

The message comes back immediately. **Of course.**

 

Like it’s nothing. Like Derek should just assume that he’s there, that he’s always gonna be there. It makes him feel warm, a soft sort of sunlit feeling spreading through the heaviness in his chest, and Derek bites his lower lip and turns the screen of his phone off, breathing out and closing his eyes.

 

Chowder squeezes his shoulder. “You good?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, not opening his eyes. “I’m okay.”

 

He gets another squeeze, and then Chowder starts rubbing his upper arm absently. The movie continues but Derek finds himself only half-listening, the heaviness setting into his head and limbs again. Before he knows it he’s drifting, and he’s only half-aware of Chris gently taking his phone out of his hand and shifting to move his head back off his shoulder and onto the pillow instead, and then sleep claims him.

 

It’s a soft murmur of voices that wakes him, some amount of time later. The room is darker and his head feels fuzzier, and and the voices he hears are soft, like they’re far away.

 

“--doing okay.” someone is saying. Warm and sweet. California warm. Chowder, he thinks. “Try to get him to drink some more water, if you can?”

 

“Yeah, definitely. Thanks for calling me, man.” Another voice--warm too, but different. Warm like sand under a summer sun, like a celly after a hard game, like two drinks of whiskey settled in his veins. Dex, he thinks, and smiles without thinking.

 

There’s the soft sound of a door clicking shut, and then the gentle _thump_ of a backpack landing on a chair. The bed next to Derek dips and he mumbles, “mmph?”

 

A hand touches his back. “Hey,” Dex says. “You awake?”

 

“No,” Derek says, which is half-true. He thinks he’s caught somewhere between awake and asleep, not quite either way. “C?”

 

“He’s got class, but he didn’t wanna leave you alone.” The hand moves in a gentle circle, over his spine and down, and Derek finds himself relaxing against it. At some point he’d turned onto his side and wrapped himself around his pillow, and Dex’s touch is soft, soothing him back to sleep. “You’re not awake?”

 

“No,” he says again. His limbs are soft and heavy.

 

“Okay.” Dex’s voice sounds farther away now. “That’s okay. Go back to sleep, D. You’re okay. I’m here.”

 

 _You’re here_ , Derek thinks, warm, and sinks back into sleep.

 

When he wakes again, properly, his room is dark. There’s a warm pressure all along his back, slung along the length of him, and when he shifts, it shifts with him. He can smell the soft, subtle scent of Dex’s soap and aftershave, and despite the heavy ache in his muscles, he relaxes. The weight over his waist tightens, and he realizes it’s Dex’s arm, gentle but firm, pulling him back against him.

 

“Dex?” he mumbles.

 

“Hey,” Dex says, his breath warm against Derek’s neck. And then there’s cool air over the same spot as Dex moves away from him, sitting up, and Derek wants to follow him, but he keeps himself still.

 

Dex doesn’t leave completely, though, just sits up in the bed, brushing his fingers over Derek’s back as he goes. “You can sleep more, if you need to,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

 

Derek considers it--he still feels heavy-limbed and exhausted, the idea of just sleeping for the next day or week or month is _really_ appealing--but rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes. “No,” he says, his voice a slurred, sleepy mumble. He rubs his face again, and squints at Dex. “Dex,” he says again. “You’re here?”

 

“Yeah,” Dex says. Derek can’t quite see him in the darkness of the room--Chowder must have pulled the blinds at some point. “Course I’m here, man.”

 

“Yeah but.” Derek shifts around on the bed, pulling his blankets up around his shoulders. Everything feels a little fuzzy; he can't quite tell what's real and what he dreamed. “When did you…”

 

“Oh.” Dex runs a hand through his hair. “C called me. He had his lit class, but he didn’t want you to be by yourself, and…” Even in the dark, Derek can see his expression turn uncertain. “Is that okay? Do you want me to call someone else?”

 

He sounds... _insecure_ , Derek realizes, like maybe Derek wouldn’t want him here. Derek feels a lump form in his throat, and he swallows it down. God, he thinks. Maybe Dex is as dumb as he is. “No,” he says. His voice comes out small, smaller than he thinks is really fair, but at least it’s there. “No, I--I want you.” Then he realizes how that might sound, and he adds, quickly, “here.”

 

“Okay.” Dex hesitates a moment, like he might want to say more, and then, “Okay,” he says again. “Alright. Do you, uh--Are you waking up for real?”

 

Derek nods tiredly, sitting up. His head feels foggy and he rubs his forehead absently.

 

He hears the sound of water sloshing. “Hey,” Dex says, and Derek glances up to see Dex holding out his water bottle. “Hydration.”

  
Derek takes it. “Thanks,” he says, twisting off the cap.

 

Dex sits back down on the bed next to him. “Did you take your meds this morning?”

 

Swallowing a sip of water-- _fuck_ , he hadn’t realized how dehydrated he was--Derek nods. “Yeah. Before practice.”

 

“Good.” Dex is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “It’s dark as fuck in here. What do you think about opening up the blinds? Getting some light, huh?”

 

“I…” Derek almost says no; when he’s feeling like this, what he really wants is to just sit in the dark and pretend the outside world doesn’t fucking exist.

 

But he thinks, a little selfishly, a little absurdly, about the way sunlight looks when it glints off Dex’s hair, the way it warms pink against his cheeks and turns his eyelashes gold. “Um,” he says. “Yeah. Light would--light would be good.”

 

Dex’s smile is soft in the darkness, and he turns toward the window. “Close your eyes,” he says over his shoulder, and Derek covers his eyes obediently while Dex opens the blinds. “Alright, you can open.”

  
Derek opens his eyes carefully, and has to catch his breath for a moment, because God, even through the fog of depression sitting heavy on his brain, Dex is fucking gorgeous in the late afternoon sun filtering through the window, casting shades of gold onto his skin and hair.

 

He’s struck momentarily speechless, and it takes him a moment to realize that Dex is actually talking to him. “Um, sorry,” he says, shaking his head a little to clear it. “I--What?”

 

Dex frowns, concern in his eyes. “I was asking the last time you ate, but if you can’t focus it was clearly too long ago,” he says. He reaches for his backpack, sitting on Derek’s desk chair. “I wasn’t sure what you’d have in and I didn’t think you’d be up for leaving, so I stopped at the Sam Store on my way over--I got you some EZ Mac in case you wanted junk food, and one of those organic, uh, stir-fry things that you can microwave that you like? And some hot chocolate packets.”

 

He’s rambling a little, going through his backpack, and as Derek watches, his cheeks start to turn pink. Derek chews his bottom lip, trying to figure out what could possibly be going through his head right now that would make Dex-- _Dex_ \--blush. “Um,” he says. “I’d…” He swallows, and then changes tracks. “You got all that for me?”

 

Dex straightens up, a box of Swiss Miss with marshmallows in his hand. He looks a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights. “Well, yeah. I--” He breaks off, uncertain, and then comes back to sit on the edge of Derek’s bed. “I can’t, you know, make you feel better, you know? Like, I can’t fix what you’re feeling. But I want to, um. Like, I can make sure you eat, and take your meds, and sit with you and make sure you’re safe and…”

 

Derek stares at him, his mouth open and anything resembling a reply caught somewhere in his throat. Dex stares back, and slowly, he starts to trail off, then he looks down at his hands, tapping at his fingers on the box of hot chocolate packets. “I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I guess I just. I wanted to...I wanted to make sure you knew that even when I’m pissed at you, and we’re bitching at each other at practice, I still. I still have your back.”

 

He pauses, his gaze fixed on the box, and then he looks at Derek. His face is red, but his gaze is steady, and something in his eyes sends a warm spark to flickering inside Derek’s heart. The spark catches and then spreads, warmth and heat channeling down through his chest and belly.

 

“I always have your back,” Dex says, holding Derek’s gaze. “I’m always gonna be here, Derek.”

 

His voice is quiet and honest and his eyes are soft, and he says it like it’s something Derek should just _know_ , and Derek just--

 

Can’t help it. He starts to cry.

 

Logically, he knows that this has probably been building all day--when he has shit depressive days like this, it’s only a matter of time before the deadened emotions decide they’re done feeling dead and explode out.

 

Still, the tears are hot and his throat feels thick and this is _embarrassing_ , and fuck, all these weeks of talking about shit with Dex and he’s managed to keep this particular side of himself hidden, managed not to show himself as the real mess that he is, but _fuck_ \--

 

“Hey, hey, hey…”

 

Gentle arms come around him, coaxing his head out of his arms and his torso up, and then Derek’s pulled into an embrace, a real, proper hug--not the weird half-hugs they’ve been sharing over the last few months, but something real and close and tight. Dex’s arms are warm around him, one around his waist and one around his shoulders, his hand curved over his neck.

 

“You’re okay,” Dex says against his temple. “You’re okay, hey, Derek, hey.” His voice is soft and soothing and Derek keeps crying like a fucking _idiot_. “Shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

 

 _I’m here_ , he says, like it’s not everything Derek has always needed to hear, like those words in his voice aren’t everything his heart has been fucking _craving_. Derek reaches up and curls his hand over Dex’s wrist, holds on hard.

 

“I know,” he whispers. “I _know_ , that’s why--”

 

Dex’s soothing voice cuts off. He sucks in a sharp breath, and then he says, “Oh, Derek, fuck.” He pulls back, and before Derek can protest the warmth of his body leaving, Dex is cupping his face in his hands, his eyes wide. “Nursey, Derek, _hey_ ,” he whispers. “ _Derek_ , hey.”

 

Derek can’t do anything but look at him. He’s still crying, and Dex brushes his thumbs over his cheeks gently. “Derek, I’m right here.”

 

He leans in, slowly, giving Derek plenty of time to pull away, and presses his lips to Derek’s forehead. The kiss is firm, clearly intentional, and Derek’s heart stutters in his chest. And then his lips move, pressing to Derek’s temple, to his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth. “Derek,” he says, voice tentative, and Derek turns his head a fraction, and--

 

It’s soft, probably the softest kiss anyone’s ever given him. Dex’s hands on his face are gentle, a cradle, and Derek finds himself leaning in, his eyes hot and his eyelashes sticking where tears are still clinging to them. They kiss again and it’s sweeter this time, less tentative as Dex seems to realize that Derek wantsit.

 

And he does, _fuck_ , wants everything about it. Wants Dex’s mouth on his and Dex’s arms around him and the warmth of his skin and the smell of his soap and feeling of _safe_ he brings every time he walks into a room. They’ve been moving towards this for a long time, he thinks, for weeks or maybe months, like continents drifting closer, like stars on track for stellar collision, waiting to crash together.

 

It’s only ever, he thinks, head spinning, been a matter of time.

 

Dex pulls away first, but slowly, as slow as he’s done everything, and he doesn’t take his hands off Derek’s face. It takes Derek a moment to open his eyes--his lashes are still stuck together--and when he does, he find Dex looking at him like he’s something precious, something to be held.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dex whispers hoarsely. He brushes his thumbs over the tear tracks on Derek’s cheeks, and his lips, pinker than they were before, twitch faintly into an uncertain smile. “Okay?”

 

Derek has to swallow twice before his voice works well enough for him to answer. “Okay,” he whispers back.

 

There’s no need for them to speak so softly, except that this moment feels delicate, somehow, and neither of them seem willing to break with volume. Dex touches Derek’s temple with his fingertips. “Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s reassuring himself of something, and then he smiles, a little more firmly. “Come here.”

 

Derek lets him shift around until they’re mostly spooning again, Dex’s back to the wall, his chest pressed along Derek’s back. Dex tucks his chin into the crook of Derek’s neck and Derek reaches to pull Dex’s arm around his waist, and Dex pulls him in close. They’ve barely spoken, Derek realizes, but it’s like the way they communicate on the ice.

 

It’s not about words. They’ve talked more, recently, and god, Derek’s been grateful for it, but it’s never been about words with them.

 

“Hey,” Dex murmurs, his lips soft against Derek’s neck. Derek hums in answer. “Look. The sun’s setting.”

 

Derek turns his gaze towards the window, where the late afternoon sun is still filtering in through the blinds. His room faces west, and Dex is right, the sun is just starting to sink down over the horizon.

 

“Looks pretty,” Dex says softly, running his fingertips over Derek’s hip. It’s a gentle motion, and it’s going to put him back to sleep, but he doesn’t mind, not really. “All those colors.”

 

“Beautiful,” Derek agrees quietly.

 

Dex’s lips press to his neck. “Think that’ll be your sweet thing for today?”

 

It takes a moment for Derek to remember what he’s talking about, and his heart _pangs_ when he does, a deep sense of being known and listened to and cared for. “You remember that?”

 

“Course.” Dex squeezes his hip. “It was important.” He’s quiet for a moment, and Derek feels him turn his head to look back at the window. “Think we should turn a lamp on?”

 

Derek turns over to look at him. His muscles are still aching and heavy, and he can still feel the weight of exhausted, weary sadness hanging heavy on his bones. But for now, for this moment, there’s this sweetness, and he’s going to savor it. He reaches up and touches Dex’s hair, where the lingering sunlight is casting it into shades of gold and orange, looks at his eyes, honey-warm.

 

“Not yet,” he says, as Dex reaches up and laces their fingers together. His hands are warm, and Derek can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his pulse against his own palm. Dex smiles softly, and it warms Derek to the core. He smiles back, and for once, it doesn’t hurt. “We’ve got all the light we need.”

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY SMOOSHED FACES FINALLY! :D :D :D :D 
> 
> It's finally done! I actually edited this chapter like three times, which is three times more than I usually edit anything before I post it, because I wanted to make sure the payoff was worth the slow burn. I HOPE THE EMOTIONAL-NESS IS WORTH IT BABES I LOVE YOU.
> 
> I have been _so_ overwhelmed by the response to this fic. So many of you have left such amazing comments, not just about the characters but about your own experiences--I promise I'm going to go back and respond to all of you, but for now just know that I'm so glad this fic resonated with you, and your own stories, and that it was a meaningful read for you. I put a lot of my own experience into this fic, and it's been a challenge to write, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> So many thanks to @debz0rz for being my beta and my rock, and @angeryginger, the Dex to my Nursey, for listening to me whine about this fic for the past month and a half. <3 love you babes. 
> 
> This series isn't done - I've got at least two more fics in the pipeline that will explore Dex and Nursey's relationship in this 'verse. So if you like depictions of mental illness and relationships, woo, get excited! (I guess? Idk, y'all, angst is my thing.)
> 
> I love hearing your thoughts and feelings in the comments, and you can always send me questions, headcanons, or feels on tumblr: @geniusorinsanity
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me on this wild ride! <3 <3 <3


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